The Psychopath
by Januscars
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is faced with a murder. Fairly normal for him. But he knows this murderer, and this murderer knows him. And John, DI Lestrade, Sgt Sally Donovan and Anderson are confronted with a horrific truth, that leaves some of them doubting their judgement of Sherlock's character. This is my first fanfic, please leave me reviews and suggestions! Hope the rating is appropriate!
1. Chapter 1

"That's all well and good, but I don't understand what this has to do with me. I thought I wasn't allowed to help you anymore."

Lestrade shrugged awkwardly, and handed Sherlock the opened letter on the desk. Sherlock looked at him questioningly, and Donovan explained.

"Got your name in it, freak. It was written to you. It came with the body, blood splatters and all. Doesn't make any sense to us, but to a genius like you it should be child's play."

Sherlock frowned at her, and turned his attention back to the letter. He sat on the edge of the desk as he read it. John read it over his shoulder, a look of pure confusion etched on his features. Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth as he read the lines, and his eyebrows slowly contracted. It made no sense. He felt as if a part of it made sense, almost as if he recognised it. But he could make no connections. He peered at the handwriting, but it was faded as if with age and dust, which made it hard to decipher. It looked familiar. He didn't recognise the signature either.

"I don't know," he admitted slowly, as he put the letter down, "It doesn't make any sense to me."

"see?" Donovan whispered to Lestrade, who shushed her with a hand gesture. Sherlock didn't respond, going over the signature in his head.

"Do you know anything about the writer?" he asked Lestrade, "Aside from the obvious, I mean."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and gestured for him to continue. Sherlock leant back and assembled his thoughts.

"Judging by the amount of staining, I'd say that it was writ-"

"Got it!" cried Anderson from outside the door, and he barrelled into the room, managing to purposely knock Sherlock off balance as he did so. He threw down the laptop triumphantly. "Got a picture of him and everything. Well, it's him when he was about forty, which seems about fifteen years ago, but still. We've also got a criminal record, which might interest you."

"What does it say?" Sherlock asked, regaining his balance with only the smallest of evil glances in Anderson's direction and squinting at the screen from where he was standing. He couldn't make out the face.

"Well I don't know, do I?" Anderson said hotly, "I haven't read it. I know you can probably deduce everything from one glance, but we're not all freaks like you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and spun the laptop to face him, and glanced uninterestedly at the picture. He didn't need to know the face, he could work it all out as long as –

He stopped dead. His face blared shock at the other four. He shook his head as if to ward off a wasp, face drained of all scarce colour, "No." he said incredulously, "what?"

John looked on in some confusion, "Sherlock? What's the…" Sherlock put his face in his hands momentarily, and John looked at the photo, not recognising the occupant. "Who the hell is that?"

Donovan was watching Sherlock in obvious confusion, "It's just a… man, we don't know. He changed his name a few times, and we can't find the original. But that's definitely him. Definitely the guy that wrote the letter."

John looked at her in confusion, "What, you can't find his name at all? No paperwork? Birth certificate? Anything?"

"All wiped," She replied, flexing her jaw, "And it isn't easy to do that sort of thing. Just, _disappear_ for years. Not many people could pull it off." She looked pointedly at Sherlock, who glared at her.

"Don't rub it in, Donovan." He said in a low voice, then turned to Lestrade, "Read the rest. Bound to be something interesting." He finished in a neutral, unemotional voice. John looked at him in confusion, realising something was wrong.

"What?" he mouthed, but Sherlock shook his head in reply. John frowned, and turned back to Lestrade, who was scrolling down the page.

"He went to jail under… oh, that name was wiped too. Hmm. Urrr… here it is, for abusing his children. Apparent history of violence, and could possibly have been… abusing them… for years before they summoned up the courage to tell someone." He winced at the details, and then bit his lip, "One of the kids… no, must have been a teenager – anyway, one of the kids fitted a camera into a corner. Filmed the whole thing."

"Fitted a camera?" Anderson said in disbelief, and Lestrade shrugged.

"Actually, the video's here. I should be able to access it…" Lestrade pursed his lips as he typed furiously. Sherlock looked slightly sick. The DI cried aloud in triumph, and the video started playing.

For a while, nothing much happened. Donovan and Anderson exchanged looks, and then glanced at Sherlock, who had assumed his customary '_I'm so smart nothing you do or say will do anything to alleviate my boredom_' face.

Finally, something on the screen moved. The bedroom – for it was a bedroom – was suddenly lit, and a boy no more than twelve or thirteen tore into the room.

"_We're leaving!"_ he was shouting, _"Me and mum, we're leaving, and you're not coming!"_

The boy was hysterical, and was shoving pieces of clothing into a large suitcase, "_You're not gonna hurt us anymore!"_

Then the door was wrenched back open, and the man in the photograph entered. He was tall, and he was smoking with rage. They could even see it through the fuzzy, low quality camera. Donovan's breath hitched.

"_You going to fight me, you little freak?"_ Roared the man, as he grabbed the little boy bodily and held him against the wall, "_you think I won't make you scream, right here for speaking to me like that?"_

The boy's little fingers were plucking at the man's thick wrist, choking and sobbing, "_I'm sorry daddy, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry, I won't do it again daddy-" _

Anderson put a hand over his mouth as the father shook the boy like a ragdoll. The boy was crying his eyes out.

"_You're sorry, huh, you little freak? You're sorry? No, now you're sorry!" _he roared, and thumped the boy's head against the wall, "_You little freak! Now you're sorry!"_

_"Daddy!" _scream the boy, holding his head in his hands, and trying to kick the older man, "_Daddy, stop, you're hurting me daddy-"_

Lestrade stopped the video, and covered his head in his hands. Anderson looked sick. John stared at the screen, pale and silent. Donovan had a tear on her cheek, and her hand was pressed so firmly over her lips it look as if she were close to vomiting.

"That… poor kid." She whispered, taking her hand away from her mouth.

Sherlock couldn't help it. A laugh burst out of him.

Donovan turned on him, murder in her eyes, as he chuckled away behind her.

"What are you laughing at?" she asked in a dangerous voice. Sherlock smiled hugely, still laughing under his breath.

"You," he choked, "I'm laughing at you. It's so ironic. _Oh,"_ he said, imitating her, "_that poor boy."_

Sally slapped him, hard, "That little kid was probably scarred for life!" she screamed, "How can you just sit there, and laugh? You bastard, you utter bastard!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow sarcastically, "Yes, he probably was. And I bet he felt absolutely horrible every time someone called him a freak."

"If he even survived!" Sally shrieked, "Do you actually have no feelings at all? Have you no… can you not comprehend, the pain that poor kid must have gone through, for years if he made it past thirteen?"

"Fifteen," Lestrade corrected her, reading more of the page. Anderson turned to Sherlock as well. He was staring at him as if seeing him from a new light.

"You really are a psychopath, aren't you?" he said; distaste radiating from him. John looked at Sherlock with a frown in his forehead.

"No, Sally, the kid survived," Lestrade said, reading out the rest of the information, "He had a broken skull… trauma… ah, here," he read out a passage, "The son was taken to hospital and took extensive rehabilitation courses for… years of similar abuse…" Sally looked pointedly at Sherlock, and mouthed _freak_ and _psychopath_ at him, "The father was taken to court and sentenced… um… the youngest son, the most abused and most injured, mm, that must be the one in the video… the young son was released, but carried '_heavy mental scars',_ whatever that means. The older son moved on, the mother was committed to a mental hospital, and the eldest son took custody of the younger once he was released. Umm… here, the younger son, who's skull was split in the last argument, one Sh-"

He stopped, and went pure white. Donovan was about to question him, but he swallowed and turned to face Sherlock.

"-erlock Holmes…" he continued, staring at his friend in shock. Donovan's mouth dropped. Anderson stumbled on his own feet, and John looked as if he were going to collapse. Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back.

"And the light dawns," he said sarcastically, throwing his arms out in a large sweeping gesture, "That took you far too long to work out." He sat down in front of the computer, and tried to ignore the stares from the other four. Donovan looked like she was going to cry. Sherlock ignored all of them, as he searched the site for more information about his father's recent movements.

Anderson was standing across from Sherlock, and his throat was working as if the words he didn't want to say were forcing their way out. Lestrade put his hand on Sherlock's forearm.

"Jesus," he said, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the image of his friend screaming his head off, "Jesus…"

Sherlock smiled too himself, cool as ever, except for a tremble. But if anyone knew him (and he could only put John in this category) they would know he was trying not to let out his emotions. His tears. He wasn't a one for crying. He never had been. But he couldn't help it. He could feel his father's hand at his neck, and he swallowed defensively. The sound echoed in the silent room.

Anderson watched him in absolute disbelief. Sherlock's face was perfectly impassive, he might almost have passed as nonchalant. But, Anderson noticed, his hand was shaking. Violently.

"Oh for god's sake," Sherlock said suddenly, "I can't take this." He slammed the laptop closed and shoved he way out of the door, "Come on John." he scowled, "I've got better things to do than this." John hurried out after him, and shot Lestrade a befuddled look, before the door swung shut behind them.

"Oh my god," Anderson finally allowed himself to say, "Oh my god."

Sally said nothing, and let her tears do the talking.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: thanks for the reviews... Re-reading the couple of chapter's I've written so far and realised how predictable it is. Please forgive me!**

Sally sat behind her desk, pen in the edge of her mouth, thinking. They hadn't told anyone. She had hardly spoken all day. All she could think of was…

It was on a loop, flashing images and snapshots of conversations.

"_Daddy, stop it, you're hurting me!"_

_"You're sorry? Now you're sorry!"_

_"Yes, and I bet he got an absolutely horrible feeling every time someone called him a freak…"_

_"You're sorry, huh, you little freak?"_

_"Got your name in it, freak"_

_"We're not all freaks like you."_

_"I'm talking, freak,"_

_"Freak? It's for you."_

_"You're not gonna hurt us again!"_

_"Hello, freak."_

_"I'm sorry Daddy, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it-"_

_"You. I'm laughing at you. It's so ironic. That poooor kid."_

_"Daddy!"_

_"Freak!"_

Sally buried her face in her hands. She could see herself mouthing _freak_ at him, and now she could remember every little detail about his reactions. Slight tightening of the knuckles. Roll of the eyes. She had never, ever seen him break his focus, his concentration. But the signs had all been there. Then she remembered his expression as he saw the picture of the father he had hated and feared for years. She had thought it was surprise. She realised now it was terror. He had actually been scared. All those times he had been surprised, scared, and he hadn't reacted at all. But he'd seen that picture and practically fainted. She wiped her eyes, and tried to concentrate.

There was a buzz in her pocket and she slipped her phone out.

**Stop crying. I can't come over and talk to you if you're crying.**

**SH**

She looked at her phone in confusion. She looked around, to see Sherlock waving pointedly at her through the window. He gesturing at her face, and she hurriedly relieved her face of all tears. Sherlock talked quickly and quietly to Lestrade for a moment, and Sally's phone buzzed again.

**Thank you. That would have been embarrassing.**

Her breathing quickened.

**What do you want?**

She saw Sherlock fish his phone out of his pocket, still talking to Lestrade. She waited for her phone, pretending to be typing on her computer. She quickly read his reply.

**You to stop crying. It's embarrassing.**

Her phone buzzed a second time, with a follow-on text.

**There's a new lead. I think I know where he is. We can't take too many people. Might as well take familiar faces.**

There was another buzz.

**Believe me, I fought that decision tooth and nail.**

Sally held her head in her hands, as Sherlock and John made their way over, Sherlock tucking his phone back into his inner pocket. John held back a bit, and Sherlock leant on her desk. She didn't raise her head.

Sherlock glanced at her. John exchanged confused looks with him. Sherlock shrugged, and poked her.

"Donovan, crying really doesn't suit you."

She squeezed her eyes together, trying not to let out tears. It wasn't working.

"Sally Donovan. Hello."

She couldn't bare it. She kept her head in her arms. Sherlock's voice changed in tone.

"Are you all right?" he asked in confusion. Her mind reeled. He actually sounded worried. Worried!

She heard him turn to Lestrade, "What's wrong with her? She isn't-" his voice was cut off as Lestrade guided him away. Sally looked up. He looked genuinely confused. She held her head in her hands.

"why would she care?" she faintly heard him ask - in bemusement. Genuine bemusement, she was sure of it. He genuinely had no idea why she would be distressed.

"Because," she heard Lestrade explain patiently, "she's feeling guilty."

"About what? It's not her fault. Why should she care?"

"Because she's a normal human being."

"Ahhh…" Sherlock said in mock understanding, "I get it now. Fair enough. Now what do I do?"

Sally stood up and walked quickly to the toilet. She could feel Sherlock's eyes following her. She locked herself in, and sat on the seat. She couldn't bear it.

* * *

Sherlock stood outside the toilet awkwardly. Lestrade made a shooing gesture at him, and he sighed, and knocked on the door. What was with her? She hated him, didn't she? Surely she shouldn't be _sad_ about… things that had happened.

"Occupied!" he heard her call. He hesitated, and knocked again.

"Nope! I'm in here!"

He winced, and knocked a third time.

"I said I'm in here!" she cried as she wrenched open the door. She nearly screamed when she saw who it was.

Sherlock stood back, as if waiting for her to punch him.

"We're leaving now, and if you're coming, you're… going to have to… come." He concluded lamely. He grimaced uncomfortably, and turned on his heel. Anderson avoided his eye, and he shrugged.

"Are you sure they should be coming?" he asked Lestrade under his breath. Lestrade nodded.

"Yes, they should, trust me."

"I don't particularly want them coming. You will owe me big time. Huge time. You will owe me free passage to at least three crime scenes. At _least_."

The DI stood his ground. Sherlock pleaded and threatened, but found himself getting nowhere. Lestrade shook his head stubbornly. Sherlock harrumphed and snatched the detective's keys from him, "Then I'm driving. Deal?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes, and tried to snatch his keys back, but Sherlock held them over his head, grinning. "See, _this_ is why I have short friends," he said to no-one in particular, "You're all so easy to torment."

Lestrade bounced back on his heels and shrugged, defeated, "Fine, deal. Drive."

Sherlock smirked for a second, then turned on his heel, "Let's go."


	3. Chapter 3

They were all squashed uncomfortably into the car, in a dead silence that only Sherlock didn't seem to notice. He was concentrating fiercely on the road. John was squished next to Anderson, as Lestrade had insisted that he take the passenger seat. Sally was looking perfectly normal except for her hands, which were clenched in her lap in a tight ball. Anderson kept his hand on her leg, in a vain attempt to comfort her. She didn't want it. She was being stupid. Now that she had recovered, she felt angry with herself.

John glanced out the window, "Sherlock, where are we actually going?"

Sherlock glanced back at him, and sighed.

"Home. I'm going home."

"What?" John asked in disbelief. Sherlock shrugged, "He stole a car. I checked the surveillance camera outside our old house. It's there."

John rested his head on the window, "But your house – it'd be empty, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock shook his head, "Mum's a bit… strange like that. She's not entirely sane. But she still owns the house, and she demanded nothing be changed. There'll be a hell of a dust problem." He added as an afterthought.

He turned down a side street, and careened up the small drive. John didn't know what to expect. He half expected a Victorian mansion, maybe a science lab, or maybe a cottage. But it was just an ordinary house made of cracked redbrick, looking very sorry for itself.

Sherlock slammed the car door, and ran up the steps. There weren't any other cars outside, and he swore to himself, looking around the perimeter. He got down on his hands and knees, and slid under the dusty and decrepit patio table. Anderson and Sally watched him in confusion. He emerged eventually, coughing and waving his hands.

"Thought so." He said, holding a dusty key in his hands, "She never moves it."

He shouldered his way in, and the others followed.

"He's not here. Spread out, see if you can find anything. He had to have some reason for coming here."

John joined Sherlock with his search of the living room.

"Are you okay?" he whispered under his breath. Sherlock looked at him, and then glanced around. Anderson, Sally and Lestrade had moved off looking for evidence. He turned back to John, and allowed his façade to break for a second.

"No. John, I'm not. I'm scared. I don't know what he wants. That girl he killed – I don't know why he killed her. Coming here? I don't know why he did it. He's been in jail for years. I don't even know how he got out. Perhaps that girl just got in his way. I don't know. I don't know enough about this, and I should."

He stood, and fingered the dust on the table.

"I never thought I'd thank my mother for keeping the house this way," he said, "But, as I've said before, dust is the perfect medium for deducing changes in an ordinary pattern."

He started roaming around the room, touching spots, wiping his hand along the cupboards, couch, and shelves.

"He was in here," Sherlock called out, and Lestrade poked his head around the door, "He touched this frame… and that box. Dust's been disturbed. He's gotten careless."

Lestrade fingered the frame himself. It was a picture of the family together. Sherlock saw him looking, and snatched it off him.

"This wasn't a good idea, was it?" he asked John. John shook his head silently

* * *

Sally and Anderson were looking through the other rooms tentatively. The toilet had obviously had a recent visitor, and their attempts to flush away the evidence were fought in vain. They proceeded to the main bedroom – evidently the mother and father's bedroom. The bed was still made. There was still a pair of glasses sitting on the bedside table. It was altogether eerie.

It seemed that when Mrs Holmes meant _as it was_ she really meant _as it was._ It looked exactly as if they had left it a day ago… and been visited by some dust fairy in the meantime.

Sally gulped, and gestured to Anderson. He held his head in his hand and shook it roughly.

"Oh no, we are _not_ going in there. No way. Never."

Sally ignored him, and pushed open the door, to young Sherlock's bedroom.

It looked exactly like it had in the video. The bed was hurriedly made, the floor was messy. There was a small violin in the corner, and a poster of the periodic table stuck wonkily to the wall. Buried under the blankets was a small teddy bear. Donovan looked at it, and bit her lip.

There were photos on the wall, of a seven year old Sherlock in a well-worn pirate costume, holding up his sword with one hand and proudly pointing to two missing teeth with the other. Another of a slightly older Sherlock asleep in his mother's arms, and one of him as a fourteen year old, standing in the back of the picture, not smiling. Sally looked closer, and could just make out the blurry shape of a hand clenched tight around his wrist. His father's hand. She sighed, and turned back to the one with his mother.

His mother was tall and pale, with a large smile and soft brown eyes. It was entirely impossible to recognise Sherlock Holmes the High-Functioning Sociopath in the sleeping boy's features.

Donovan looked around. The dust on the floor was clear and obvious, but there were large marks in it, like someone had been crawling over the floor. She followed them, to where they lead under the bed. She knelt down and looked underneath.

"Sally." Said a soft voice from behind her. She turned around, and saw Anderson, fingering a large crack in the wall. Sally felt her stomach flip, at the smallest hints of deep brown dried blood clinging to the flaky surface. "_You're sorry, Huh? You little freak? No, now you're sorry!"._ Sally gulped, but couldn't help the voices that echoed in her head – a terrible, un-needed reminder. "_Daddy, stop, stop you're hurting me!"_

Anderson frowned, and then turned to see what she was holding. A small diary, brimming with notes. She flipped through, seeing diagrams, old dried specimens stuck on clumsily with tape, and pictures of people in various poses. She frowned as she got closer to the end, and the scribbling became more erratic, the writing more crammed. The pages after the halfway point were filled with page after page of notes, about heights and gaits, shoe sizes, timetables, algorithms and newspaper types and printings. She could almost sense the desperation, the vibe through the handwriting, see the young boy frantically writing, trying to distract himself…

The last chunk of the book had been ripped out. She fingered the ripped pages, but before she could look at them, the book was torn from her grip.

Sherlock tucked the book into his pocket, expressionless as ever. He turned away, and began looking around the room. Sally watched him, seeing the slight shake in his hands. She stood awkwardly.

"well someone was here," Anderson said, breaking the silence.

"What a brilliant deduction Anderson," Sherlock said sarcastically, "Your powers of observations are truly unique."

Anderson rolled his eyes as he felt that familiar grip of annoyance. It was more comfortable than the awkward pity, and he fell back into the old routine quickly. Sherlock was examining every inch of the room, when he paused mid step. He pulled out the notebook.

"Where did you find this?" he asked. Sally shrugged, and he grew impatient, "That doesn't help me."

She pointed to the spot on the floor where she had found it, and he bent down to peer more closely.

"Shit." He whispered, "You did not. You bastard." He grabbed the bed by the railing and pulled it violently away from the wall. Sally jumped at the loud screech, and John ran to Sherlock's aid. Together they pulled the bed into the centre of the room.

"What is it?" john asked curiously, and Sherlock swore.

"I _told_ her to clean this out! I told Mycroft to clean this out! Why did nobody listen? Arghh!" he yelled, and thumped the floorboards. John leant further over to see what Sherlock was so frustrated about. Sherlock was hurriedly scrapping things back into a cavity under the bed – with a piece of floorboard covering it. John shoved the bed away with his shoulder and helped Sherlock pile it all together. Anderson picked up one of the pieces of paper surreptitiously, and read it. One side was taken up by notes on detecting blood in amongst water, the other taken up with scribbled words. It was like a classic _dear diary_ sequence, except the content was so much more disturbing. Anderson gulped, and fingered the blotchy ink. The writer had been crying. And he knew who the writer was.

Sherlock clicked his fingers, "Got it. The letter. The one on the girl. I _knew _I recognised it." He shuffled through the papers and held up a bundle triumphantly, "I knew it. Bastard."

He held up the bundle of envelopes. John frowned, not understanding. Sherlock did his classic '_Why does nobody make the same connections that I do_?' face and sighed.

"They're letters he sent me when he was serving his first sentence in jail. He was locked up for minor assault. He'd send me letters under a whole range of false names. That's why I didn't recognise the signature. It must have been the name he took on later. That's why he chose _that_ letter. He used one of the names he had come up with in jail. That's his official name now."

"Why'd he do that – the false name thing?" John asked in confusion, taking the bundle from Sherlock and flipping through it. Sherlock shrugged.

"Habit, I guess. Partly fun, too. I don't actually know what his real name is." He admitted, "He's changed it so many times."

"Wait – so you're not a Holmes then?" John asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes I am. My mother was a Holmes. Therefore, I am a Holmes." He paused for a second, and then returned to the subject of the letter, " But why would he do that? Leave a letter he'd written, years ago?"

"Maybe he wanted to get to you." Anderson said slowly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Thank you Mr obvious. That thought had occurred to me."

He paused for a second, and sat on the bed, releasing a large cloud of dust. He fingered the letters.

"He _is_ trying to get to me. Bastard!" he said suddenly, and slammed the letters down, kicking the ones that fell down violently. He stopped after a few seconds, breathing heavily, and sweating slightly. He slapped the bed in anger, and vaulted over to the other side. John stood, and stared at his friend, who was pacing restlessly up and down the room, hands clenching and unclenching in thought.

"Why?" John asked, staring at Sherlock, "Why would he want to do that?"

Sherlock calmed down for a second, and looked as if her were mulling over the answer, deciding whether or not to speak. Eventually, he gave in, and explained, "He was… well… he didn't like me very much. He blamed me for his imprisonment." The fire and anger came back to him, "If I hadn't been in hospital I have no doubt," he emphasised this with a wave of his hand, "That he would have killed me to revenge himself. He _is_ a psychopath. Now he's out…"

John sat back against the wall, "This is like Moriarty all over again."

Sherlock sighed, and sat back on his heels. "He's trying to get me to do something. He wants me to do something, but I don't know what. "

Lestrade Looked at Sherlock, "We'll need to note down details as evidence."

Sherlock shook his head violently, "None of this goes to the media. Get it? None of it. Make sure none of them discover the connection between us. I've had enough shit from them. And that's what he wants."

John shook his head, "This _really_ sounds like Moriarty now."

Sherlock shrugged, "They think on similar levels. It's hardly surprising. But he, unlike Moriarty, doesn't want me committing suicide. He just wants me dead – he doesn't care about his reputation. He cares about none of that. He won't be subtle. He will strike, and strike hard."

John frowned, and ran his hand over the spread of papers and notebooks hidden under his bed. He glanced up at Sherlock. He saw the determination there. John touched Sherlock's hand under the bed, sending a quick message of comfort to him, where the other three couldn't see.

Donovan frowned, and glanced at Anderson. "What'll he do?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock hissed, "I don't know, and I should know."

She reacted automatically, without thinking.

"Guess you're not as hot as you'd like to think, freak."

A second after it exited her mouth she realised what she'd said, and slapped a hand over her mouth. Anderson croaked slightly, and covered his face with his hands. Lestrade gulped, and John stared daggers at her.

"Guess I'm not," Sherlock said musingly, as he fished his phone out of his pocket. He finally felt the awkward vibe, and glanced around, "What? Are we leaving…?" He looked around, clueless, and shrugged. "…Or are we standing around?"

John stood up, as if to break the awkwardness, but it didn't work. He looked around, trying to find something to say that would relieve them of their discomfort. Sally was shaking.

Thankfully he didn't have to find a distraction. Sherlock stood up as well, and pushed the bed back into place.

"There's not much more we can find here. I'll try and follow where his car went, perhaps the security cameras… It's worth a try."

He shouldered his way out of the room, and they could hear his footsteps tapping on the dusty floorboards. Sally was shaking horribly, her hand pressed over her mouth. John hesitated, and then at a shout from Sherlock to the effect that they were all slow stupid idiots, left the room.

Anderson was last to leave. He glanced back at the bed. The ripped page was in his hand. He closed his eyes tight, deciding. Then he slipped the note back into his pocket, and followed the DI out of the musty bedroom.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thankyou so much for your reviews! They make my day! Unfortunately haven't had much time for writing )-: but here's the next chapter. It's a really short one. A really, ****_really_**** short one. Sorry! I'll try to update soon.**

Sherlock had bagsed driving again. He claimed that the Lestrade always took the long way around, and they soon discovered that by 'short way' Sherlock meant the way through the middle of the local children's playground. Thankfully it was too late for most children, and no-one were injured. Lestrade cuffed Sherlock on the back of the head, "You can't drive through a park, you moron." He said angrily, "You could have hit a kid."

"Well I did drive through a park and I didn't hit a kid. Be happy. We'll get there quicker this way."

He was concentrating so fiercely on his mental map - trying to find a quick, but inconvenient route to the police station to annoy his companions – that he almost didn't hear his phone ring. John, purely out of habit, slipped it out of Sherlock's pocket for him and answered it. Sherlock ignored him.

"Hello?" John said into the phone. He couldn't make out the voice, and switched on the loudspeaker, "Hello?"

There was a pause, and a smooth voice on the other end said, "_You're not Sherlock Holmes."_

John frowned, "No, I'm not. This is his phone though. Who is this?"

The voice suddenly roughened, "_Hand me over, sweetheart. I want to talk to my son."_


	5. Chapter 5

When Sherlock heard his voice again, rough and old, but so familiar, his hands slipped with the shock, and the car spun, careened into the curb. With a dazzling display of quick reflexes, Sherlock spun the wheel, just scraping the wall with the wing of the car, bringing it to a screeching halt. His mind was for once reacting too slowly for him, and he staggered slightly as he leapt out of the car, ripped the phone from John's hand and collapsing against the car door. His hands felt rubbery and non-responsive, and it seemed like an effort to keep it in his grip.

"Hello?" he said, silently thanking his voice for staying impassive. There was a chuckle at the other end.

"_You haven't changed a bit_." His father said. Sherlock's hand clenched and unclenched.

"You bastard." He said quietly, "That girl. The one you killed. Why'd you do it?"

"_Oh, her. I don't know. Felt like it, I suppose. It was the most direct way to get to you. Did you guess where I got the letter from?"_

"Straight away." He automatically lied, "It was fairly obvious. I had to check though… but," he sighed and switched the phone back off loudspeaker, holding it to his ear and standing slowly, "Why? I don't understand, why have done all of this?"

His father laughed, "_Oh, I just felt like it. I've been shut away for a very long time, thanks to you, you know…"_

"Yes, I know. But there's more to it than that. I know there is," Sherlock said, "Perhaps killing was a whim. But you want something. You wanted me to go back home, why? What could you possibly gain from it?"

Lestrade gave him a confused look, and Sherlock shook his head, turning away and continuing his conversation. John leant against the car, and watched his friend talking- recognising the signs of stress that he had grown to associate with Sherlock's moods. They tended to be too small for other people to notice them, but John did. Sherlock was clenching and unclenching his fist - which wasn't so odd in an ordinary person…

However Sherlock wasn't ordinary and John knew the pressure that his friend was under. He closed his eyes tight, still coming to terms with the new information that had revealed to him. He would not have guessed the severity of Sherlock's past, though Sherlock had previously hinted that it hadn't been a satisfactory one. John had assumed Sherlock meant that his parents had been too strict, or perhaps not a smart as he, or that he hadn't liked following their rules. He would never have suspected this.

Well, maybe he would have. He himself knew that the cold mask Sherlock usually wore could at times give way to expose a living, feeling human being. He knew that Sherlock treated it as 'protection' against the emotions he so detested revealing. But it hadn't always been protection from _everyone_ – it had started as protection from a violent father, and had developed into a lifestyle. John swallowed noisily.

Sherlock was pacing up and down the road, ignoring his friend's looks. His father's voice on the other end, taunting him. Sherlock willed himself not to break. That voice was gnawing away at his mental barriers, worming its way through the thick wall as if they were soft dirt. He held his head in his hands.

"_I'm going to get you, freak_." His father whispered roughly, "_I'm going to hurt you. You may be older now, but I can still get to you. And I know, no matter what you say, you're still scared of me."_

"I'm not scared of you." Sherlock hissed, allowing the anger to break forth, "I'm _not_ scared of you."

There was a laugh at the other end, "_That's so cute. You're still a baby, Sherly. Still a little child, behind that mask. And I can hurt you, as a child. Just chip away at you, bit by bit…_"

"I've heard this before," Sherlock said evenly, "I've heard all of this before, but not from your mouth. And I give you the same answer I gave him – People have died, and I will _not_ play your game."

John came up behind him, and put a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock turned, for once grateful for the proximity. John gave him a reassuring look, and Sherlock turned back to his phone.

"I'm not stupid, father. I can find you. I can follow you. Give yourself up now, you'll go back to jail, and no-one gets hurt."

"_Oh, that sounds so nice Sherly, that sound really nice, except for one thing. I don't want to go back to prison. It's hell in there. I went through hell, in prison, because of you, freak, and I'm not going to be put back in there – least of all by you. Again – no, in fact, I'd prefer to die. But, if I'm going to die, I might as well take you down with me_." The voice turned into a snarl, and then cut off, as the father evidently slammed down the receiver. Sherlock groaned, and closed his phone. John squeezed his shoulder. Sherlock smiled humourlessly, and ran a hand through his hair.

"Come on," he said quietly.

As they made their way back to the car, Sherlock quickly re-assembled his features into his more normal expression. The other three were watching him, nervously.

Sherlock passed his phone to Lestrade, "Try and trace that call. Call back if you have to. I want to know where he's calling from, and try to trace a path, track his movements. With luck, we should be able to catch him that way."

"Are you okay?" Greg asked. Sherlock gave him a dry grin.

"Not particularly, but I'll manage. We need to find him. As soon as possible. He's gone insane, He might kill again."

They swung themselves back into the car. Sherlock shoved himself into the back seat, taking his phone back from Lestrade, "On second thoughts, you drive, I'll call back. I don't trust you not to say something stupid." He said, smirking.

Sally got in the front with Lestrade, in an attempt to avoid all contact with Sherlock. She was still kicking herself for her slip. Good going Sally, she thought to herself, Maybe you are as stupid as he always said. Idiot!

Anderson tried not to look at John or Sherlock. He was squashed up against John – the police car really was too small – and was trying to find distraction from the sombre atmosphere. He stared at the passing cars as if they held a great interest in him.

Sherlock held the phone to his ear, waiting for a reaction. If there wasn't one, he'd have to wait for the police to trace it, and that would take time that he didn't want to waste. The dial tone buzzed, and he hoped someone would pick up. Frankly, he thought it would be a far easier way of discovering the phone's location.

"_Antonio's Pizza bar, can I take your order? Our special of the day_-"

"Damn!" Sherlock said aloud.

* * *

**A/N: Oh my god, thankyou so much for your reviews! This chapter is a bit longer than C4 (not that that's hard), but I should have 6 done fairly soon... hopefully... I promise I'll try. Have faith! **

**- JC **

**Sorry, I couldn't resist that sign off.**


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock sat behind the computer screen, eyes darting back and forth between the customers that milled around in a sort of hectic order. He had bullied his way into the security system, and was now trying to gauge a direction in which his father had headed. Lestrade stood behind him, trying to help search. Sherlock knew he would be of no help, but let him continue. He might as well let Lestrade feel like he was doing something important.

He watched as the recognisable figure of his father shouldered his way into the restaurant. A few seconds later, Lestrade cried aloud in triumph, as he finally spotted him. Sherlock rolled his eyes and made a sarcastic comment about slow wit, to which Lestrade had no answer. Sherlock ignored him, watching as the slightly bulky figure negotiated the use of the phone, waving his hands a lot. Sherlock could tell that the man behind the counter was being threatened.

"What's he saying?" Lestrade asked softly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "I don't know. There's no sound. I suspect he's probably threatening the man."

"How do you know that?"

"He's got a knife, inspector. Hardly a difficult deduction."

"Oh," Lestrade said, taken aback, "So he has. Someone must already be there then, if it's a hold-up. I'll see if I can contact the sergeant on it-"

"Nope," Sherlock said, "He paid the assistant to keep quiet. None of the police will know about it, at least, until now." He added humourlessly. Lestrade sat back in his chair, pressing his fingers against his lips thoughtfully. Sherlock wondered what he had to think about.

"Bullied his way to the phone, not surprising, then he called me – must have got my number off the website, I really do have to remove that – paid the assistant not to talk, walked out, and turned… left, okay, where's that street camera?" Sherlock asked, and Lestrade, pointed to the left hand side of the screen.

Sherlock quickly brought up a speed camera view of the street to the left of the pizza bar, where they watched the flickering figure make his way down it. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, as he tried to picture a likely route.

His fingers flickered over the keyboard, bringing up a picture of a seemingly unconnected street. After a quick zip through the tape, they recovered the image of their target, who was jogging now. Sherlock grinned. Lestrade looked at him out of the corner of his eye, "How'd you know that?" he asked quietly.

"Just a hunch. It's a logical path through backstreets. He's not trying to hide from me."

"I'll get someone after him," Lestrade said quickly, and Sherlock shook his head.

"He'll have gone to ground by now, this was… an hour ago. I'll try and find a location. If not, we'll have to wait for his next move."

Lestrade moaned in frustration, "He's getting away from us. Are you sure you can't get something faster? Guess, if you have to, your guesses are usually fairly accurate."

"You mean my guesses are usually right."

"Well…yes." Lestrade admitted, "But I'm not letting him get away. Not again. I don't want to up the body count."

"Wait – I thought I was forbidden to help police officers on their cases."

"Treat yourself as a witness."

"But I didn't witness anything," Sherlock said infuriatingly. Lestrade sighed, "Then treat yourself as… a family member called in for questioning. There. That all better and legal?"

"Up to a point," Sherlock said, "But let's face it, I couldn't care less, whether it's legal or not. I just don't want the media getting wind of this."

"You really don't like the media, do you?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock laughed humourlessly, replying quickly as Donovan and Anderson entered the room, with a stack of surveillance and witness reports, "Inspector, the media was practically single-handedly responsible for what I can describe with absolutely no hesitation as the worst moment of my life. And that is truly saying something. Now, I'd really like to get on with this, if you don't mind."

"What about-"

"No." Sherlock said, knowing what he was going to say. Lestrade looked taken aback, and Sherlock continued, "No, I'm not going to ask Mycroft for help." Lestrade was about to protest, but was cut off, "In any case, he's in Russia for a 'diplomatic meeting'. I'm sure he wouldn't want to be dragged away from his precious politics for another family argument." He added bitterly. Lestrade weighed the pros and cons of protest, and shut his mouth with an audible _clop_. Sherlock smirked.

Anderson silently passed him the witness statements for the girl's murder, and he paused, to leaf through them with distaste.

"Her sister's lying. Nothing of consequence, but… Oh, look, her brother lied too. Nothing malicious, I think they just don't want to insult her memory." He laughed in deprecation of people's sentiment and continued, " She does smoke. And she does drink… or at least, she did drink and smoke. Tense problems, always the case with murders. Ooh, her, and that boyfriend was never serious. He's probably worried about being suspected for it, considering their last argument was so vehement… Probably why he didn't include it in his statement."

"How di- Forget it." Lestrade said with a sigh.

"If I were you I'd put his mind at rest over that. Being suspected for a crime you've never committed isn't exactly a walk in the park." Sherlock said meaningfully, enjoying rubbing in his innocence at all possible moments, "Oh, and tell the mother that it was the brother who stole that money, not the dead girl. Although that might not be exactly tactful, might it?" he added as an afterthought passing the reports back to Anderson. "Is that tactful?" he asked John. John shook his head silently, and Sherlock nodded, "I'll remember that."

He ran his tongue over his dry lips, and turned back to the computer screen to continue his search. Lestrade and John exchanged glances, and the other two slipped out of the room, still trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

John glanced around, and sat on the desk next to Sherlock.

"Sherlock…" he began, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John, now is really not the time for an in depth discussion about my mental wellbeing. Please do me a favour and let me work."

"Sherlock, we may not get another time to talk, but we can talk here, now that Tweedledum and Tweedledumber have left. Just one question, okay?" He pleaded. Sherlock groaned, and swivelled his chair to face him.

"Why didn't you recognise the letter?" John asked, "I've seen you rattle of lists of paper companies, pen types, handwriting styles and impression depths. But you didn't recognise your own father's handwriting. I don't get it."

Sherlock shrugged, "Ordinary people block out painful moments of their lives, don't they?" he asked. John nodded, "Well I, it would seem, have erased most of my data on my father from my mind. I never thought I'd need it, and, to be absolutely honest, didn't particularly want it. I don't like nostalgia, and I don't have much to be nostalgic about. Childhood memories are over-rated." He finished, turning back to the screen. Then he paused, as his mind automatically ran back over their brief exchange, and he registered John's words.

"Tweedledum and Tweedledumber?" He asked in confusion. Lestrade snorted at the names. John shrugged.

"You know, Tweedledum and Tweedledee? From the – Oh, who am I kidding , of course you wouldn't know."

Sherlock agreed dutifully, and in complete confusion. He turned back to the screen.

"Oh, and John, If you interrupt me again with pointless questions," He said musingly, watching a crowd come and go in fast-forward, "I'll personally kick you out of this room."

"I'll remember that." John said.

Another hour later, and Sherlock was getting nowhere. He had lost the figure in a crowd, but had regained his bearings, only to find himself following the wrong person. When he retraced his virtual steps, he found that someone – no prizes for guessing who – had wiped the video footage. His father was every bit as brilliant as Sherlock was, but he tended to be more… well, murderous. And, it turned out, had friend in computer hacking, which honestly didn't surprise him one bit. His father knew even more low-life smugglers, hackers and assassins than Sherlock did, and that was saying something. Sherlock bashed the desk in frustration, and held his head in his hand.

"Lost him again?" John asked sympathetically, as he passed him a coffee in a polystyrene cup. He had long since learnt that Sherlock when he was having trouble with an important case was a Sherlock to either keep away from or treat with extreme respect and a lot of coffee. Sherlock accepted the cup, and proceeded to ignore it's presence with applaudable determination. John sighed, and Greg looked up from the report he was filling out. John took the plunge.

"Sherlock, when did you last eat?"

"John, I warned you about pointless questions."

"You didn't eat for two day before we were called in here –"

"I was doing an experiment, John, which took precedence."

"Over your health?"

"Health is over-rated. You talking is not helping."

"And you haven't slept since then either."

"John…"

"And you've been under extreme physical and mental stress."

"John, this talk never worked before, so why don't – what do you mean, mental stress?" Sherlock asked indignantly.

John gestured to Sherlock's hand, which was vibrating, shaking. Sherlock frowned, but couldn't stop it.

"You need food. You need rest. I'm not going to back down on this one. I've backed down every other time Sherlock, and let you run yourself ragged because I know that you'll eventually finish the case, and I might be able to force some soup and sleep upon your unwilling person. But this isn't a normal case, and the mental pressure-"

"Not. Now. John, I have to find him. If I leave it to the police then -"

"Sherlock." John said, equally firmly, "You are getting nowhere. For the past hour - you've tried everything you can think of. With rest you'll be able to concentrate and who knows, he might get clumsy, leave a clue."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "John, he doesn't leave clues. He'll leave his safe place eventually, and I'll be following him electronically. Sleep and food will make no difference."

"Yes they will, Sherlock, I'm a doctor, and-"

"No."

"Yes. Food and-"

"No."

"Sher-"

"John. No. I mean it." Sherlock said in his absolute no-nonsense voice. This would be the moment when John would usually abandon his cause, but he was a doctor, and this was one time he would not back down. He knew how important this case was, to be sure. Not just to Sherlock. But he had seen things like this before. He had seen some of the things Sherlock had had to do on cases like these, the running, the shooting, the adrenaline pumping, plus that added mental stress he knew that Sherlock would never admit to… his father knew him, and knew that Sherlock wouldn't stop until the case was solved and his father back where he belonged, in prison. And he had that feeling that the father would use that to his advantage. Get Sherlock to follow him, for perhaps days on end. Wear him out, and then confront him. Sherlock had amazing stamina, but this was not a normal case. John tried to explain it to Sherlock as best he could, but he wasn't having any of it.

"Bullshit, John. How many times has this happened? Large case, week or so, no food or sleep. I'm still alive, and still functioning."

"But you're tired. And if you're tired, and he tries to face you, you're as good as dead."

"Thankyou for those kind words of encouragement."

"I mean it!"

"Girls, girls, break it up." Lestrade said, putting down his phone, "Sherlock, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Sherlock looked at him incredulously, "What are you talking about?"

Lestrade gestured to the phone, and explained, "I'm not taking sides or anything. The Superintendent, wants to-"

"Oh, I see," Sherlock said with a sigh, "He's monitoring you, isn't he? Still isn't pleased with you for letting me back in on that case with the stick-figure cypher, hmm?" Lestrade nodded guiltily, and gestured to his phone.

"Just got a text. He'll be here in ten minutes. So if you could just…"

"And if I don't leave, inspector?" Sherlock said, leaning back and placing his hand behind his head, "What will you do?"

"Do? Well, I'll lose my job… then I'll probably yell at you…" Lestrade fished around desperately for a threat that would do his anxiousness justice, and decided for the big one, "and then I'll go and tell the media absolutely everything."

Sherlock fell off his chair. After wincing in sympathy, John resisted the temptation to say 'I told you so' (for the many times he had warned Sherlock against leaning back on swivel chairs), and instead opted for the diplomatic approach, staying silent. But Sherlock could guess what he would have said. He glared as the DI.

"You're not serious," he said, standing up and massaging his backside, "You're not serious. You wouldn't."

"I am serious, and I would. This is my job, and I intend to keep it. Otherwise you'll have to rely on Dimmock and Gregson for all your cases, and they're still too scared of retribution to take you on fully. My advice is get the hell out of here. I'll call you when he's gone – go, get some food and some sleep. Might be a few hours."

"We don't have a few hours, inspector."

"If we're waiting for him to show himself, we might have a few days, and I want you at the top of your game. Because, no matter what I'm going to tell the Superintendent, I _am_ using you. I'm not going to have you faint from exhaustion after we capture him, and I certainly don't want you passing out before we do."

John leant towards Sherlock and whispered loudly, "I'd take that as a compliment, if I were you."

Sherlock whipped around to reply, but Donovan stuck her head around the door and interrupted him.

"He's here. Fr-you-er – Sherlock." She finally said, after very nearly slipping again, "Sit. Pretend we're getting you in for witnessing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but complied, if a little over-dramatically. He could see both Lestrade's and John's argument, and in fact, though he wouldn't admit it, he did feel tired. Normally, when he was on a case he had no time to stop, to think about hunger, or tiredness. But he had another couple of hours to spare, and they may as well be used to his own advantage. They sat down outside Lestrade's office, and put on a bored demeanour, as if they had been waiting to put forward a statement for an hour or so. They had to keep it realistic.

John started shaking next to him, and he turned around to look at him. He wasn't shaking with fear, or tears, he was shaking with suppressed laughter. Sherlock turned to see what he was looking at, and started laughing himself. John nudged him to stop, but that only elicited a major snort, and eventually they both succumbed.

The Superintendent looked them up and down. He looked the same as he had four years ago, all be it a little plumper, and with a nose that was a little wonky. He noticed John first, which was odd as most people looked at Sherlock with that look, that '_I'm going to kick your arse because you made me look like an idiot'_ look. As he glared at John, he unconsciously brushed his nose. Sherlock and John erupted into a fit of giggles. It was the same dumpy police officer whose nose John's fist had realigned, and he didn't look happy about it.

"You're that fraud, aren't you?" The Superintendent said bluntly to Sherlock. Sally, following closely behind winced, but Sherlock was laughing too hard to notice.

"Yes," He said as he calmed down to reassemble his uncaring face, "I have been called that." Sally marvelled at how quickly he could hide his emotions.

The Superintendent nodded, "I thought you weren't supposed to be helping." He continued. Sherlock shook his head.

"I'm not." He said airily, "I'm a family member. I mean witness. I mean – oh for god's sake, John, which one am I?" John could see the vindictive look on his face, and realised that Sherlock was paying him back for their previous conversation.

"Witness." John confirmed, silently muttering to himself about stubbornness. Sherlock turned back to the police officer.

"Yes, that's right. I'm a witness. I… witnessed it."

Sally buried her face in her hands. Sherlock snorted again.

"He's just trying to act stupid," John explained, cursing Sherlock, "He's getting annoyed that everyone considers him as a smug bastard, and he's trying to bring himself down to our level. That's his words." He added.

Sally tried not to laugh as Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's lame explanation and subtle jibe, and said in a stilted affectation of sincerity, "Yes, I thought it would go down better with pompous idiots."

The superintendent huffed, and shoved his way into Lestrade's office.

"I love what you've done with your nose!" Sherlock called out to his back, and he and John collapsed into laughter.

Sally turned away from Lestrade and his superior, and allowed a large smile to break out over her face. She didn't particularly like the Superintendent either. Anything that made him squirm was alright with her.

Sherlock chuckled quietly to himself, as the superintendent busied himself in talk, rubbing his nose.

"Come on," He said, "Home suddenly seems a good option. I need to think anyway."

"Great," John muttered, and they rose, and made their way out of the building as unobtrusively as they could.

**A/N: sorry that this didn't advance the plot very much. I promise the next one will. But I couldn't resist them meeting the superintendent again. It was too good an opportunity to miss. You'll find out a bit more about what his dad wants next time too. (-: I've just got to write it… **


	7. Chapter 7

221b was silent. Mrs Hudson had gone to complain to the druggist about her hip medication, and it had been about half an hour since they had been so perfunctorily removed from Lestrade's office. John basked in the bliss of the silence, knowing it couldn't last. Sherlock was on the couch, curled up, supposedly thinking. John had the sneaking suspicion that he was catnapping, but didn't say anything. He knew that any sort of sleep was probably a good idea for Sherlock, although the thought of getting him to eat was probably a touch too optimistic. He shrugged, and lay back on his armchair, planning to follow in his friend's lead and take a nap. He rarely got to, in the middle of a case. It was bliss.

"John!" came a cry from the sofa, and he screwed his eyes shut. There, see? He had known it wouldn't last.

"He's not…" Sherlock was looking around blearily, blinking a lot, and finally focussing on John. He rose to his feet, got his legs tangled in the scarf he had refused to remove and fell with a papery thud to the floor, surrounded by the last three day's various newspapers. John stood over him, eyebrow raised.

"What are you doing?"

"John, Oh my god I know what he wants!" Sherlock cried, shoving the newspapers away, and dashing to the desk. He began searching frantically through its contents. John watched him in confusion.

"What're you looking for?" he asked eventually, patience spent. Sherlock threw up his hands in exasperation.

"My laptop! My phone! Anything with internet access."

"My laptop do?" John asked with a sigh.

Sherlock snatched it, "It always does." He said without a hint of sarcasm, typing in the password without hesitation. John held his face in his hands.

"I changed that this morning."

"I know. You still haven't learnt. Try something a little less generic. You always inadvertently let your hands fall on similar keys, it's fairly obvious." He directed a large fake smile at John. John shook his head, and perched on the edge of the couch.

"What're you checking?" He asked. Sherlock muttered under his breath, and then replied louder.

"Trying to see if Mycroft had my mother moved at all. I doubt he has, but you never know…"

"Your mother?" John asked in surprise. Sherlock sighed loudly, and spun around in his chair.

"Think about it John. He's trying to get me. We know that. He's making his game elaborate, why? Is he trying to wear me out, as you so kindly put it? No, I don't think so, if he wanted to do that, if wanted to throw me off the scent, he would have tried more. He would have called me again. He would have left some sign. But he didn't. Either he's following any whim that enters his head, which I doubt, or… he must have more than one motivation. The letter he left had no purpose – other than to get me, into my old house. No other reason. This elaboration is for more than just tiring me out so that he can kill me. He's practically left me a break time. I think he's used this time to contact her home, organise a visit. I'll contact the staff as soon as I've told the inspector, he needs to know this." Sherlock final noticed John's sceptical look, "Fair enough? Does my reasoning make sense?"

"I suppose so… though I don't know your dad."

"I do, and trust me; acting entirely upon whim isn't something he'd do. No, he'd have a plan. He started with a whim, the girl's murder. But he's trying to get to more than one person, I'm convinced of it."

"Mycroft?"

"Don't be daft John, Mycroft's in government. He spends his time with soldiers and high-ranking men, surrounded by security. Even My father wouldn't try and go for him. Do I have to say it out loud?"

"Your mother. He wants to pay back your mother as well."

"No," Sherlock said quietly, and his features visibly softened, "My father is many things John. A psychopath. Now a murderer. He hated his children, and many other people besides. But he did love his wife. He wouldn't want to hurt her."

"He sent her insane!"

"He's a psychopath. He didn't notice, and when he did, he found someone else to blame. I'll give you two guesses who. And if you say Mycroft I'll laugh in your face." Sherlock shook his head, sarcasm aside, "In any case, she's not insane. She's just not… emotionally stable."

"I've never met a Holmes who was." John said quietly. Sherlock smirked at him, knowing John would never mean it as an insult.

"Perhaps my reasoning doesn't make sense…" Sherlock said hesitantly, "But I'm sure that's what he's trying to do. He loves her, he never hurt her like he hurt me. But he wants something from her. Or at least… Well, otherwise, he wouldn't be this elaborate. He'd go straight in, with a simpler plan, just to kill me. That's it. He doesn't tend to be overly subtle."

"I thought you said…" John started, but Sherlock intervened quickly.

"He's not normally like this. He's brilliant, certainly. But never that elaborate. Sometimes, John, the simple plans tend to be the more brilliant ones. The ones where less things can go wrong. But he's obsessed. He's going to take his wife back, and get rid of his hated son. He's insane. Because of me… god, this is my fault."

"What?" John sat back, stunned, "Sherlock Holmes saying it's his fault? You… But… You're joking. You're honestly joking. You can't possibly be seriously suggesting that that's _your_ fault. Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock looked at him in confusion, recognised the sarcasm, and sat back, smirking slightly. "No, John, I wasn't joking. Perhaps it isn't entirely my fault. If I hadn't done what I did it could be a lot worse. And, let's face it, I was, what, fifteen?"

John looked stunned, "You think it's your fault then, that your dad broke your skull?"

"Oh for god's sake John, no!" Sherlock said quickly, "That's just stupid. No, no no, it was the things that I said to him John, the things that he's been running over in his head for those years in jail. I told him that he could never get to mum again, and maybe, maybe he took it as a challenge. I said it so many times to him, You're not going to ever see her again, we're going to take her away and You'll never touch her – god, maybe it _was_ a challenge."

"Should we tell Lestrade, you know? Check out your mother?"

Sherlock glanced at his phone, to which no text had come. The superintendent was still on premises. He paused, thinking.

"That Superintendent didn't look like much of a talker," He said finally. "Text Lestrade, tell him I'm coming, to wrap up conversation. I know where he's going. I don't know when, and I don't know how, but I know where. We need to move my mother."

* * *

Lestrade paused by Sally as she sorted through some of the witness statements.

"You okay?" he asked. Sally looked around.

"Where's nose-boy?'

"Don't talk about a superior officer like that, Donovan." Greg said threateningly, but he couldn't blame Sally for her hatred of him.

"I don't like him. I treat him when respect when he's around. But that's as far as I go. Don't you remember what he said to me at the last Christmas gathering?"

"Yes," Lestrade said evenly, "You should learn to stop holding grudges."

"He's racist and he's sexist. I don't like him. What's he doing now, anyway?"

Lestrade sighed, "Anderson's going through some of the evidence with him. I don't know, he just doesn't trust me anymore. Well, I guess I deserve that. So," He said, returning to original conversation starter, "Are you okay?"

Sally shrugged, "Yeah, I guess. It was all just a bit of a shock."

Lestrade laughed, and leaned back on the desk, "I know what you mean, I was like that when I first found out."

"Found out…"

"That_ he_ had feelings." They both knew who they meant by he.

"I was more referring to the father thing."

"I'm still coming to terms with that." Lestrade admitted, "But you're treating him really strangely, and I think it's un-nerving him."

Sally frowned, wondering what he would prefer from her.

"Just… act normal. Don't hide your annoyance. I know Sherlock, and he hates people pitying him. He hates people feeling sorry for him. That's probably why even John didn't know – John didn't know, Sally. Sherlock would have told him, but he knew that if he did, it would turn out like this. Don't feel obliged to be as polite to him as you have."

Sally nodded, relaxing a little. She hated that feeling of awkward pity, not knowing whether to be nice to him or not. She was willing to trust Lestrade when it came to advice about Sherlock. She didn't know much about him, now that she thought about it. Apart from the fact he was an utter prick, she thought wryly.

"I'll try." She said, and Lestrade grinned.

"Just perhaps don't call him freak."

"Yeah." Sally said musingly.

* * *

Sherlock and John clambered out of the taxi, which made a point of exiting into the merging traffic as fast as possible. John winced. Sherlock hadn't been very nice to the cabbie, and they were lucky that he hadn't just stopped and refused to carry them. Cabs near Baker street required a very hardy breed of cab driver, and most made a point of giving the flat a wide berth.

"Don't do that, Sherlock," he said under his breath, although he knew it would be no use. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and pushed the glass door open, shouldering past a couple of young policemen without a care, "Not my fault his kids don't speak to him. I was just giving him friendly advice."

"That's not friendly, Sherlock, just trust me."

Donovan stopped them at the entrance to the main hub of offices.

"Not a good idea," she said, "Superintendent's still here. If you've got any evidence, give it to me, and I'll make a pretence to deliver it to him. I'm not having you barging in…" She paused, "What am I supposed to call you?" she asked in slight desperation.

Sherlock looked at her, confused. "Uh… Thingo?" he suggested half-heartedly. Sally rolled her eyes, and shoved them into a smaller office out of the line of sight of the superintendent.

"Now, Thingo," She said seriously, "What have you got? I'm not going to waste his time with shit. Give it to me straight."

"I think I preferred you when you were guilty and silent."

"Murderers take precedence," Donovan added without humour, "I've gotten over it. Now, thingo, what have you got?"

"Actually, on second thoughts" Sherlock said, turning to John, "I don't like thingo."

"Answer the question!" Sally said, forcing herself not to shout. God, she was pissed off with him again, and it almost felt normal. It was so easy to be aggravated with Sherlock Holmes. She reminded herself to be careful. Last time she'd gotten to complacent she'd slipped back into her old ways, and had… well, she wouldn't do it again.

"No offence meant, Donovan," Sherlock said, "But I prefer to give my information directly to the higher-up. I think I know our murderer's ulterior motive."

"He doesn't have an ulterior motive. He wants to kill you, that's what you said."

"And you've always listened to what I said?"

"I listen to it when it makes sense. When you can explain your reasoning to me so that I can understand it, then I'll listen to you, and maybe believe you.'

"_You,_ understand it?" Sherlock said hotly, "That's a leap of the imagination."

"What?"

"I mean you're hardly the brightest specimen I've come across in the police department. I need to talk to your commanding officer, as a matter of urgency. Let. Me. In."

"I. Can't."

"I'm warning you…"

Anderson stuck his head in through the door, "Sally, Superintendent wants to speak to you."

Sally huffed, and folded her arms, "What does he want? I'm not going anywhere near him unless it's important."

Anderson shrugged, desperately, "Just come, please, he won't say anything like that again. You kicked him last time, remember?"

Sherlock looked at her curiously, and she avoided his gaze.

"Fine," she said, and held up her hands in a surrender position, "fine. But if he's a prick again, I won't be responsible for the consequences."

She strode out of the room. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and turned to Anderson.  
"What has she got against our lovely colleague?" he said in a conversational tone. Anderson was busily stacking reports into a filing cupboard, and didn't turn.

"He said something he shouldn't have. Actually," Anderson said, voice taking on a strained quality as he lifted a particularly heavy box of files, "I don't blame her. He was quite rude to her, apparently. So she kicked him, and left. He was going to have her demoted, but there were so many witnesses to testify that he'd been offensive that he gave up on it."

He was ducking down behind the desk, avoiding contact with Sherlock.

"What'd he say?" John asked curiously. Anderson felt more comfortable talking with John, and replied, "I don't know, I wasn't there. I heard about it, but no-one will tell me about it. Although apparently he was quite racist. Bastard."

He slipped out of the door, but stuck his head back around the frame to address John.

"He'll be gone in a minute or so, you can come in once he's left."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and sat back. He had noticed Andersons furtive little movement, trying not to look him in the face, not addressing him, choosing to turn his attention on John instead. This was worse than the normal abuse In fact, the abuse was fun. This was just awkward.

John turned to him, "Are you sure you're right? Are you positive that he's going after your mother as well? I mean, trying to get her back?" he corrected himself. Sherlock shook his head.

"No, I'm not positive. But it's a distinct possibility. We have to check anyway. I'd have gone myself but… I have a feeling…" he trailed off, as the figure of the Superintendent passed their office door. Sherlock silently willed him not to turn in their direction. Questions would mean even more delays, and that was something they couldn't afford now. Who knew what his father actually had planned next.

And now his mother might be in danger as well.

His father loved his mother, he knew. But, his father didn't know what hurt her, and never had. Even if he didn't intend it, he could still hurt her mentally. Sherlock really didn't want to take that risk.

**A/N: once again, thanks to all who left reviews. please continue! (-: please give me your advice, what you think should happen, and... well, any advice in general. I've already got it planned out, but I could always use help! Next chapter shall have more 'action' (meaning more direct contact with father!) and... no, I won't say that. Leave that for you to find out.**

**Hope Sherly's ranting about mummy made sense. Not going to tell you whether he's right or not. **

**In truth, I haven't decided.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: here's another, rather long chapter. It coul be split into two, but I can't be bothered.**

**I sincerely hope it makes sense, I wrote most of it in a sleep-deprived delerium. I checked it over later, and it seemed to make sense... forgive me if it doesn't. I'll fiddle with it later if it's that bad. Which, knowing me, it might be.**

**I'm going to have to be careful if i want to stay inside the T rating. Daddy's beginning to sound a little too violent... (:**

**Have fun, and reviews are always welcome... suggestions, ideas, whatever. I love them. :D**

* * *

"I don't get it."

Sherlock held his head in his hands, and breathed heavily through his nostrils.

"You told me to guess, inspector. This is me, guessing."

Lestrade ran his hands through his hair, "Have you checked on her?"

"No." Sherlock said shortly. Lestrade looked at him in surprise.

"You mean… you didn't try and go off on your own?" He asked in incredulity.

Sherlock shrugged, "No. I thought I should use your available manpower. I don't particularly want to meet my father on my own, if it's all the same to you."

"So, wait," Anderson intervened, "Why does he think that his mother's in danger?"

"_He_," Sherlock said pointedly, annoyed that Anderson was still avoiding addressing him, "knows his father. _He_ knows that his father loves his mother. _He_ knows his father hates him. _He_ knows his father wants to kill him. _He_ knows his father is going to try to kill him." Sherlock paused for breath.

"_He_ knows that if his father were going to try and kill him just for the sake of killing him, his father would have tried something more by now, not just leave him breathing space. _He_ knows that the only other reason as to his father's delay in attacking and contacting him is that his plan involves more than one person. _He _knows that his father is not the sort of person to hesitate. _He _knows his father is trying to involve someone else. _He_ has guessed that it's his mother."

John grinned at the sarcasm with which this speech was delivered. Lestrade sat back.

"No offence, Sherlock, but that doesn't make any sense. I don't fully get your reasoning."

"You don't have to." Sherlock replied, moving to the window so that they couldn't see his face, "I'm sure that it's right. Human instinct is uncanny, Inspector, and I've seen many cases in which it played a vital role. In any case, checking can't' hurt. I'm not letting him get anywhere near my mother. She wouldn't be able to cope with it."

John glanced back at Lestrade. He could see a sort of skewed logic in Sherlock's assumptions, which was odd. Most of the time his arguments, when voiced, made perfect sense.

Though he did have a point, and that was that it didn't hurt to check. John said so to Lestrade.

"I'll do it," Anderson said. Sherlock turned away from the window to stare at him incredulously.

"Well, don't all thank me at once," Anderson said sarcastically into the silent pause. He slunk out of the room, grateful to be away from the combustible atmosphere.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said slowly, "Are you okay? You're not making as much sense as you normally do. Are you really sure-"

"Yes, Lestrade, I'm sure. He did this for a reason, I know. He wants me, but he hasn't tried to get me. He wants my mother. She's the only other person he could possibly want-"

His phone started ringing, and he fished it out.

"What?" he snarled into the receiver.

"_Did I just hear you say mother?" _

Sherlock clutched the phone to his ear as if he were drowning and it was a life-vest.

"_Don't worry, just fooling with you,"_ his father said over the other end, "_I can't actually hear you. I can see you. I'm in the building opposite, give me a wave."_

Sherlock pressed his face against the window, trying to see. John and Lestrade, still clueless, followed his lead, and peered at the building opposite.

"_Well, no, actually, _I'm_ not in the building opposite you. Smile, Sherly, you're on camera!" _His father chuckled, and Sherlock finally made out the small tripod and video camera placed in the room opposite them, across the street. He stood back.

"So you can see me, but not hear me."

"_I can hear you now, Sherlock, we're on the phone."_

"You're going after my mother."

"_No. I'm going to visit my wife. There's a difference. How did you know?"_

_"_I guessed. I'm good at guessing."

Lestrade's face collapsed for a second, and John closed his eyes. They couldn't hear the replies, but they didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce the topic of conversation. The Inspector gestured to Sally, who took the hint, and dashed off after Anderson, as fast as she could in her awkward high-heels. John watched her go, and then turned back to Sherlock, who was holding onto the phone so hard John could practically hear the plastic cracking beneath his fingers.

"_Aww, do you miss mummy?"_

_"_Let me put it this way," Sherlock said, voice trembling with anger, "If you've hurt her in any way, and I find you, I will make sure that I kill you in the most horrible way I can conceive. And I can think of many horrible ways to kill you, believe me. So, daddy, one last chance. Give yourself up. Go into hiding. Whatever, I don't care. But if you kill again, if you hurt my mother, I'll be there along with the police. I'll be there, and I'll find you. I'll be the first to catch you, and the police will have to drag me kicking and screaming off of you. If you're still alive, that is."

Sally and Anderson slipped inside the room silently, wincing as they entered the uncomfortable atmosphere. Anderson handed Lestrade a piece of paper. Lestrade glanced at it, and then let his face fall into his hands. John glanced over at the paper. He gulped, and looked at Sherlock, waiting for him to finish.

"Stay," Sherlock said, not noticing them, "Away. From. My. Mother."

"_Too late."_ The voice snarled.

* * *

Sherlock felt his stomach drop out from its usual resting point. He stumbled a little, tripping over his own stationary feet and stepping backwards. Lestrade stood to question him, but Sherlock held up his hand for silence.

"_That shocked, ya, didn't it? Ha, I can see your face. Want to say hello to mummy? Mummy's watching you too. Say hello to mummy…"_

Sherlock gulped, as there was a murmuring on the other end of the line. His mother's voice.

"Mother?" he asked quietly, tone mounting into danger, "Are you alright? Has he hurt you?"

There was more muttering, and then his father's voice came back on.

"_Mummy doesn't want to talk right now, Sherly. Mummy's going to sleep now."_

"If you hurt her I will kill you." Sherlock said.

"_I'm not hurting you, am I, my baby?" _his father said in a soft coo, evidently to the mother, "_I wouldn't hurt you would I? No, Sherly's just being a big pussy. I would never hurt my baby…"_

"Your baby." Sherlock said impassively, "Your… baby, lived a half-life because of you. She's dying before her time, because of you."

"_Mummy can hear you, Sherly, be careful."_

"Don't patronise me, _Daddy_, I'm not the sort of person you want to patronise."

"_No, you're the sort of person I want to make scream."_ Hissed his father, "_I want to make you scream. Your mummy laughed when I showed her that video, you know."_

"What video?" Sherlock asked. He had a nagging doubt, which was fulfilled at his father's next words.

"_The video at home, Sherly. When you saw my car, and came home, and realised about the letter… "_

Sherlock's face was a mask of realisation.

_" I was taping you, you know. Payback. Almost symbolic, isn't it? That camera in the corner, I got it working again, got it filming your reactions, filming your words. Your mummy like puzzles, doesn't she? Still does that crossword, do you remember the crossword? She watched you trying to work it all out, work out what I was doing, what I wanted to gain. One big puzzle. She was so disappointed when you didn't. You still don't know why I filmed you, do you?"_

"Why would you video that?" Sherlock asked in answer, " Is that why you wanted me to go back home – is _that_ why you chose that letter to place on the dead girl? But why would you want a video…?"

"_To show mummy, of course! I've got a lot of videos of you now. Do you think mummy will be proud Sherlock? You think you'll make her proud?"_

"What do you want?"

"_I want to show mummy how stupid you are. I want to show mummy what a bad boy you are. She told you to stay away from the house, didn't she? She didn't want you going back home. She knew seeing it would hurt you – You're a bad boy, you went back. Mummy won't like that. I want to show mummy what a bad boy you are. So that mummy won't mind me hurting you. You wouldn't mind, would you baby?" _he said to the mother again. Sherlock glared at no-one in particular, aiming the vibe at his father.

"You're insane. You're… This is all wrong. Why do you want-"

"_I want my baby back Sherlock. You took me from my baby. Maybe I could let bygones be bygones, now I have her back with me…but I love my baby, and you locked me away from her. I hate you, Sherlock Holmes," _his voice rose in pitch and volume, "_I hate you more than… anyone, anything, anybody. I hate you so much, I'm afraid it might burn me up from the inside, I hate you so much I could-"_

The father paused. Sherlock was shaking.

"_I'm watching you. You don't look too scared now, but I bet you are. I scare you, Sherlock Holmes, like no-one else can scare you. It's in your head, that fear, it's a part of you. I'm a part of you. You don't get it, do you? You know, I've read your website, do you remember when you talked about clearing out your head, hmm? Clearing out your attic? You couldn't clear all of me out, could you? Because I built your walls, I constructed those attic walls, I'm inside them, I'll always be there. You can pretend you aren't scared, but somewhere in there is that little boy, the little baby boy who cried when his daddy yelled at him. This is how I made you, Sherly, this is how I'll destroy you."_

_"_I'm not a puppet. I'm not your toy. I'm not a child anymore." Sherlock stared straight into the camera across the street, shaking but determined, "You can't scare me with words. Words are nothing. Threats are nothing. You, are nothing, _daddy_ until you kill. Then you're a murderer. There's nothing else for you, no life, no love, no _baby._ You are what you do, and you kill. You. Are. _Nothing._"

"_My baby… Sherlock's being a bad boy again, see? Look at him, he's being a bad boy…"_

Sally and Anderson exchanged looks. They could hear part of the conversation through the phone, snatches of it at best. When the voice on the phone had risen to a shout they had heard it all loud and clear, and had exchanged that glance, that loaded, guilt-ridden glance.

Sally stood to one side, watching the consulting detective. She had never seen this side of him – the anxious side, the relatively _human_ side. Anderson shuffled his feet, avoiding all eyes, even hers. They were both thinking the same thing. They were both thinking about that video. It was impossible not to. It was on a loop in their heads, every time _he_ did something out of character, they were reminded of how fake that character they had known and hated was, how much it was a mask. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it was one they couldn't avoid.

Sherlock stood, listening. None of them could hear the other voice now. They could only see the stance of the detective – straight, rigid and trembling. With fear? No, Sally realised, with anger.

Anger.

* * *

Lestrade handed Sherlock the piece of paper. Sherlock put the phone back down on the desk, his face an immovable mask of emotionless. Except for the rage. The rage was still there, it just held the uncaring mask on tighter. His father hadn't told him anything after those final few stinging accusations, not that he had expected him to. Sherlock picked up the paper. It was a faxed copy of the visitor's book.

There was that name again, that fake name that his father had started using. Written in that now familiar handwriting, the time indicated on the sheet was, yes, that hour gap that had been left between Sherlock's two phone calls.

Sherlock had been right. He had only guessed, but as Lestrade had admitted, his guesses were usually correct.

The elaborate plan made sense to him now – or at least, this proved his theory. That the gap in his father activity was one with a _distinct purpose_.

The video was new though. Sherlock was kicking himself for not thinking of checking for cameras. His father wanted to use the videos, the footage he had accessed about Sherlock to convince his mother that Sherlock was a 'bad boy', that video of him in his house, searching under the bed, not working out the puzzle's solution. It was true that his mother hadn't wanted him going back to their house. It was true that she probably would have been angry about it. It was true that she was unstable, and couldn't think as well as ordinary people. And it was true that she loved her husband, with the sort of devotion that had blinded her to the harm that he had done, the harm that he was doing to her. Sherlock needed no further confirmation of the distraction and problems caused by love. He had made up his mind. His father was intent on killing him, but caring enough to make sure it didn't hurt his mother as much as…

Sherlock closed his eyes. His father was insane, desperate.

But still, something nagged at him. What _else_ was his father using to turn his mother against him? It wouldn't take much, he knew. His mother was vulnerable, and… not quite all there. He had no doubt his father would be able to use a simple thing, something as simple as Sherlock returning home, to start a tide of resentment from his mother. All his father had to do was remind her of the times Sherlock had been 'bad' as a child, and then show her him being 'bad' as a grown up. She would believe it, because she had no choice, she loved her husband and she believed him.

His father didn't want to hurt his baby by killing her son. He was softening the blow, and getting revenge. A psychopath in love, now that - that was a threat.

* * *

There was an awkward silence, as no-one struck up the courage to ask Sherlock about the conversation. The heightened atmosphere had dropped a little, and was now sombre, cold and fear-driven.

Sherlock punched his thigh, and turned to Lestrade.  
"We're leaving. He's there, and he's probably going to leave, but I need to check on her. I think he's challenging me… I have to just…Oh, my god," Sherlock groaned in a combination of stress and exasperation, "what is he doing here?"

Lestrade glanced around, and at that moment felt his career drop from its moderate height, to crash around his ears with a silent, but painful thud. His head began to throb, and he covered his face with his hands. Sally twisted her ankle as she stepped backwards, and Anderson tried desperately not to laugh. It wasn't funny, at least, not in context. It was an absolute picture perfect impression of classic bad timing.

The Superintendent stood in the doorway, looking like he was going to explode.

"Ah, Sir, look…" Lestrade started, but the superintendent held up a hand to stem the flow of words.

"What the hell is this, Lestrade?" he said in his familiar drawl, "are you trying to lose your job?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, knowing the source of the officer's fury and wanting to disperse it as quickly as possible so that he could move his mother out of danger, "I'm a witness, sir and-"

"Don't give me that bullshit, you fraud. I heard all you said."

Sally, standing in the corner watching the racist, sexist bastard, felt that anger build up behind her eyes. Why did emotion build up behind her eyes? It started to worm it's way down her throat, and she could feel that it was going to burst out of her mouth in its regular form. She didn't think that insulting the chief superintendent was a great move, especially at the moment. It wasn't only the fact that he was constantly a pompous idiot that annoyed her, but having to constantly be polite to him was quite a strain. Now all that strain was collaborating with her annoyance to try and shove the comments out of her mouth. _Shut up,_ she thought desperately, _shut up._

"I find you, in 'ere, with your…" the superintendent paused to assemble the sarcasm, "_detective_. Plottin' and plannin' – you should be ashamed, Lestrade, You're a bloody, stubborn idiot. This man," He pointed at a smouldering Sherlock, "Is a fraud! He's a murderer and an abductor, and you're askin' his advice on official work, you idiot!"

Sally put a hand over her mouth. Anderson noticed the movement, and sent a reassuring look to her. It didn't work. Common sense was trying desperately to hold back the abuse that was straining to pour from her mouth. Her love of her job joined in the frantic tug of war. But she knew her bitterness would win. Her only hope now was that her common sense and job-oriented aspirations could keep a hold of her tongue until either she left, or the superintendent left.

Fat chance.

"You're not going anywhere!" raged the large dumpy man, bouncing around in a furore, looking comically outraged, but too serious to make anyone laugh, "You're staying right here, and I'm going to send someone else, wherever you're going. Your career is over now, Lestrade. It was over when you first met this freak-"

"Shut up, you fat old fart!"

The room went deadly quiet. Sally nearly fainted. There it was. Her common sense had lost. The bitterness and anger and annoyance had finally toppled her determination, and those words had escaped from her mouth. Great. Now they'd both lose their jobs. Anderson wobbled, halfway between laughter and fear.

Sherlock stepped forward, "Well said," he whispered, and Sally glared at him. She wasn't inclined to feel any sympathy towards him at this exact moment in time, no matter what she knew about his past. She didn't want his compliments. Because, that was a pretty high compliment, coming from Sherlock Holmes. They had, she realised, finally found something they agreed on.

"I'm not helping," Sherlock said quietly to the superintendent, whose shock and rage were warring so obviously on his face that it looked as if either emotion had grabbed a cheek each and were tugging them in all manner of directions, "I'm going off on my own. I'm not going to investigate a murder, or going to interrogate a witness. I'm going to visit my mother. You have no authority over me, but I advise you – just friendly advise - take back your previous statements. When Lestrade comes back, towing a dangerous murderer and potential serial killer behind, I'm hoping you'll forget his affiliations. I am, after all, only here as a relative of the murderer in question. I haven't been involved in any cases-"

The superintendent started to interrupt, but Sherlock's overwhelming personality turned it's intimidation dial up to 11, and the words paused, half formed in his mouth.

"Except the one with the cypher, yes, you found me out. But I took your warning to heart, sir, and I've been seeing purely private clients ever since. If this weren't my father I would have nothing to do with it. I advise you get out of our way. We're trying to catch a murderer. I'll hold you personally responsible if my mother gets hurt in any way shape or form, if you delay us any longer. You don't want that." He finished the sentence with his face inches away from the policeman's face. The anger and shock had drained, and was replaced by a sort of hesitant, irritated compliance. It was so often the way, Sherlock thought, that the men who bullied their way around in life by flaunting their high rank were easily cowed by people who didn't care. He couldn't care less about the man's rank. He couldn't care less about the man's authority. People's lives were in danger. He had no time for bureaucratic _shit_.

And this wasn't just anyone's life. This was his mother's life.

"Get out of my way." He said in his silkily dangerous voice.

The Superintendent complied.


	9. Chapter 9

The car was quiet, once again. It would take ten more minutes to reach the home for the elderly in which his mother had been 'incarcerated', as he so charmingly put it. The sirens were wailing, but the wailing never seemed to permeate the inside. Perhaps it was the atmosphere preventing it. Anderson grinned tightly at Sally, but she didn't grin back. Lestrade turned to her.

"Well, I don't know about anyone else but, frankly, I think we stuffed up."

Sally said nothing.

"And now I'll probably lose my job."

There was an equal amount of silence. Sherlock glanced at him quickly, "Do you think he'll actually fire you?"

"Wouldn't surprise me. He's still adamant that you're not to be trusted. And, well, it is _illegal, _to have you help_. _Not a good combination." Greg said, in a joking voice. No-one laughed.

"Why does he still think Sherlock's a fraud?" John asked.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the road, but his hands tightened on the steering wheel, "Yes, that is a good question, now that I think of it. Why does your charming colleague still persist with such an appallingly obvious fantasy?" Sherlock didn't bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Lestrade shrugged.

"I don't know. I think he just doesn't like being wrong."

"And _you_ don't mind being wrong?" Sherlock inquired. Lestrade shook his head. He had once had doubts about Sherlock legitimacy. Not anymore.

"Not when I want myself to be wrong." He said quietly. Sherlock gave him a grin. Though he wouldn't admit it, remarks like that did tend to make him feel a little better. Then he remembered where they were going, and why they were going, and the smile slipped off his face.

"I would have thought that there was enough evidence as proof of my non-fraudulent activities." He said shortly.

Some people had been less inclined towards accepting the jury's verdict, and still labelled him a fraud. In fact, it was still a hotly debated issue. However, Sherlock didn't particularly care. As long as he got work and the media didn't hassle him too much, he didn't care what the majority of people thought. It was insignificant and, as he had said to John, anyone who thought he was stupid or wrong, was just stupid or wrong themselves.

Donovan tentatively voiced the thought that had been nagging her. In her mind's eye, she could see a little boy being beaten by his father, and it made her feel uncomfortable. She bit her lip.

"Why?" She asked. There were a few puzzled looks from the other occupants, and she realised she had asked a question that only made sense if you were following her train of thought, which of course no-one else was. She had been thinking largely about the snippets of conversation she had gleaned from the other end of the telephone a few minutes previously. She elaborated, "Why is he… Your father… Why is he doing all of this? Why is he so determined to kill you?"

Sherlock took a deep breath to begin explaining, preparing his _Are you stupid?_ voice for more work. But before he could begin, John interrupted.

"Well, you said it. When we first met." He said, allowing some ice to enter his voice for the first time in a while. Sally looked confused, and he finished, "He's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored."

Sally winced at her own words repeated so vehemently. John looked at her, face hard. She could hear her own words as well now. "_Solving crimes won't be enough. One day, he'll just cross the line – now ask yourself, what sort of a man, would kidnap those kids, just so he can impress us all by finding them?" _ Sally turned away from John's continued gaze. No-one else in the car quite understood the exchange however, and the meaning was largely lost.

But Sally understood it, and understood what John was trying to say. _See how wrong you were?_ He was saying. And she could also hear that resentment – _see what you've done?_

That guilt from those feelings, those remarks, was still there. She had never truely accepted that Sherlock wasn't a fraud, she readily admitted it. Now her mind was spinning guiltily with previous conversations – where she had called him freak, fraud, and psychopath. Now they were hunting a real psychopath, one who had hurt Sherlock, one who had made him scream and cry. The psychopath that had _made_ him into what he was. _He_ had never been a psychopath, just a victimized man who's past had made him hide behind a mask that he couldn't bear to remove. He was a genius, and a man with feelings. They were just well hidden, and feverently denied. I t was kind of sad, in a sick, horrible, guilt-ridden way.

She remembered herself smiling at his discomfort, on so many occasions. She remembered him, cold and angry, talking to his father.

_"There's nothing else for you, no life, no love, no _baby_. You are what you do, and you kill. You. Are. Nothing."_

Sally sat back, and stared out the window. God, she thought to herself, who's the psychopath now?

* * *

There was a collective tensing, as a phone calling tone rang out. They all knew who's it was. Anderson closed his eyes, and Greg clenched his hand back into a fist.

John picked Sherlock's phone out of his pocket, Sherlock refusing to pull over and answer it. He held the phone to his ear apprehensively. Please, god, not now.

"Hello? This is Sherlock Holm-"

"_John?_" came a familiar voice over the line, "_Where's Sherlock? What's happening?"_

John visibly relaxed, and the fearful vibe lessened with him. John held a hand over the speaker, "It's Mycroft."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, keeping them forward and fixed on the road ahead,

"_John? I need to speak to Sherlock. Now."_ Mycroft's voice had lost its usual snobbery and was now more frantic, "_For god's sake, what's happening?"_

"Don't you know? No-one in Russia told you?" John said sarcastically, "You're dad's back."

_"I know that, for heaven's sake, do give me some credit. But is Sherlock alright?"_

"Um, yeah, I guess so. We're driving over to see your mother and – " John looked over to Sherlock for advice, but found none in the hunched form.

_"Oh god,"_ the voice over the phone said quietly, _"He's trying to get her back, isn't he?"_

"I think you should talk to Sherlock about that." John said. Sherlock shook his head vehemently, refusing Lestrade's badly mimed offer to take over driving. John made a quick decision, and flicked the phone onto loudspeaker.

"Okay, he can hear you now. Phone's on loudspeaker, don't… you know…"

Mycroft laughed a tight little laugh and directed his next question at Sherlock.

_"What's happening?"_

"Dearest Daddy's trying to kill me." There was a pause, as Mycroft obviously expected more information. Sherlock swalowed, "He might be camped out at mother's, I'm going to-"

"_You're going to mothers? Sherlock, I don't think that's a good idea."_

"Why not?" Sherlock asked defensively. Mycroft sighed.

"_I think you know the answer, dear brother."_

"Don't patronise me." Sherlock hissed, "Her life is in danger. I know you don't care about that, never did, did you?"

_"Sherlock. Grudges really don't become you."_

"No, don't argue Mycroft." Sherlock said, "I'm handling this. Go back to your politics; they've always been far more interesting than our little troubles, haven't they?"

_"Sherlock, I know I've… Look, I know-"_

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock said tensely, swerving around a particularly slow car in a very obvious rude manoeuvre, "Just shut up. I don't want your help, I don't want your apologies. It's too late now. You can't help us, so there's no point in asking."

_"Sherlock, You know I'm sorry – I never meant to-"_

"You never apologised before." Sherlock said harshly. There was silence up the other end. None of the car's occupants knew what Sherlock was referring too, but they could all make a fair guess.

John glanced at Lestrade. Mycroft seemed lost for words, something none of them would have expected. Sherlock's voice radiated resentment, and it seemed Mycroft could hear it as well.

_"Sherlock, I know that I haven't… That time, I didn't know, I swear I would have-"_

"Would have means should have, Mycroft." Sherlock said shortly, "And you didn't."

There was a pause over the other end.

"_Is there anything I can do?"_ Mycroft said quietly. His voice sounded sad, and it was so out of character that John almost choked.

"No, I don't think so. I don't think your security cameras or highly trained militia will make any difference, thank you. Although, I have a friend who'll need a little help if he wants to keep his job. If it's not too much trouble…" Lestrade gave Sherlock a small smile, and Sherlock raised his eyebrow.

_"Sherlock, you shouldn't be going. He wants to kill you."_

"That, dearest brother, is hardly new. I think it would be best if you hung up now."

There was a pause at the other end. Sherlock turned his attention back to the road, and nodded to John, who picked the phone up.

"Mycroft?" he asked, turning the phone back to normal. There was a sigh in his ear.

"_John… Don't let him go,"_ came the soft whisper, _"You have to stop him, he'll…"_

"No, Mycroft, I'm sorry," John said, "But I can't. I'm sorry." He knew that Sherlock would not stop. He knew that Sherlock could not sit on the sidelines and watch. He couldn't put his friend through that. He didn't want Sherlock to do this – to go into danger, no, he didn't. But he knew that it was no use, that Sherlock would not stand back.

_"John,"_ Mycroft said seriously, "_I'm not asking you. I'm not ordering you. I'm… I'm begging you, John, don't let him. His father… our father…he hates him, I know it. I've visited him in jail, I've heard what he says. You think Moriarty wanted Sherlock dead? That is nothing, nothing, to the level of hatred… Moriarty was more organised, perhaps more of a threat. But his father is more desperate."_

"Goodbye Mycroft." John said tersely. Mycroft didn't argue. He could sense the futility.

"_Look after him John. I'm on the plane back to London, I'll be here in… I'm guessing another half hour. Please, don't make me have to come back to my brother's funeral."_

John hung up, "Mycroft will be in London in about half an hour. You'd better get this over with, I don't think he'll be too happy with you."

"I'm not my brother's property," Sherlock said shortly, "I'd like to see him try and stop me."

"Wait half an hour and you will."

Sherlock sighed. Lestrade looked him up and down.

"What were you talking about? You and Mycroft. What did he do?" He asked softly, Sherlock knew what he was referring to, and shook his head.

"Not important."

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"What did he do?"

Sherlock sighed. He hated these sort of questions. _This_ was why he had never told anyone about his… unsavoury past. Might as well be done with it. He took a deep breath.

"Just before… you know, the… incident, Mycroft left home. I asked him to come back, to help me get my mother away from my father. He had fitted that camera at my insistence, and had agreed to try and gather some evidence so that we could get him arrested. But I asked him for help, so that I could get mother out of there, before he hurt her. Mycroft wouldn't do it. He was working towards one of his many university degrees," Sherlock allowed the bitterness to lace his words, "and refused to help. He said the police officers would take her away, and that it wasn't our responsibility."

John groaned, "God. That sounds just like Mycroft."

"He couldn't do anything, really," Sherlock countered, "But he wasn't there, and that's what matters. I suppose… there wasn't much he could have done anyway. But he should have been there."

Sherlock glanced around, and then realised all that he had said. He flushed. Something about him reliving childhood memories seemed to fascinate the other four. Perhaps it was because he sounded sad when he did it. He hated sounding sad. Sadness was an emotion he hated above all else. Except guilt. He hated guilt even more. But sadness and guilt went hand in hand, and there was almost never one without the other.

"Anyway, Mycroft can't help us now." He said briskly, recovering his demeanour and trying to save face, "My father's probably not even there anymore. He's probably run. I'm just going to check on my mother, and I don't need any help with that."

All four of them saw through this attempt to bluster his way out of the emotional topics. Sally glanced around – now was the moment, she felt, to ask that question that had been nestled away in the back of her mind. She'd never ask it if she didn't at this very moment.

"What did your dad do to you?" she asked. Sherlock's features hardened.

"You don't want to know, Donovan, believe me."

Anderson sat forward, "Yes we do." He said. Sherlock shook his head.

"Now is really not the moment." He said.

They didn't want to know what his father had done specifically, he knew. They wanted to know what his father had done, to turn Sherlock into who… into _what_ he was. The sociopath.

Sally kept looking at him, and eventually he grew uncomfortable under her gaze. He took a deep breath. Might as well get it over with.

"What did he do to me? Everything from punching to choking, to almost-drownings and a lot in between. I wasn't allowed _feelings._ No friends, no…anything. It was his way, or nothing. You asked me once; well, more than once, why I do what I do. Why I act like I do. Now you know the answer."

He turned back to the road, "We're nearly there. Stop asking questions."

Sally sat back. Anderson gave her a furtive glance. Sherlock was right. She did know the answer. They both did. She and Anderson – they had been so wrong. And Sherlock was just rubbing their faces in it. This was more like old times.

* * *

Sherlock knew that his words had made them guilty. It had been his intention. However, it wasn't as satisfying as he had expected. He still secretly cherished the looks on their faces when they were feeling guilty about judging him, though now they were treating him differently. He didn't like the tentative politeness. But he did feel that jab of satisfaction every time he thought of them, realising how wrong they had been. It was cruel, but he felt he deserved a little bit of… bitterness. If anyone had a right to be bitter, it was him.

His heart was pounding in his chest – anticipation, fear? God, he didn't know. He hated emotions. Hated them, couldn't understand them. In other people, he could recognise and analyse them in an instant. But in himself? They were alien. Invaders. They weren't - _had_ _never been_ - welcome. They had been forced out of him, but he didn't want them back. They just made everything harder.

The 'elderly' home – Merripit house (more of a mental hospital, but no-one wanted to call it that) - loomed in his vision, tall and foreboding, and he took a moment to acknowledge the fact that his mother's room was right at the top. Of course it was. He slammed the door behind him, pausing to wait for what seemed like an infinite amount of time as the others slowly extricated themselves from the car, and took a moment to appreciate the building. _So slow!_ He thought desperately.

"Sherlock, don't just go barging in," Lestrade warned, "Quick formalities first. I have just lost my job, remember? I don't actually have the authority to… demand access."

"You were never formally fired," Sherlock said in a huff, but could see where the detective was coming from. He just didn't have time for it.

The receptionist was a nice lady, but he had no time for _nice ladies_. He slapped the counter, mking the small woman jump.

"I need to get into room 7 on the 10th floor, now." He snapped. Get them formalities out of the way.

"Sir," the receptionist said with a smile, "Visiting hours are-"

"Visiting hours are not over, I need to see my mother." Sherlock said quickly, cutting her off. The Receptionist looked affronted, and straightened her glasses.

"Sir, the rules specifically-" But Sherlock didn't let her finish that sentence either.

"No they don't. I need you to let me in. There's a man up in that room who's a murderer, potential serial killer, and I don't care how well he chatted you up - because I know he did - he's still a psychopath and child abuser, and I seriously doubt that he'll actually meet you for that date you organised. I think you really should let me in."

"Sir, please, just-"

Lestrade took over, and quickly explained the bare basics of the situation to the startled receptionist. Sherlock sighed in obvious impatience.

"I think I should have just gone up anyway, don't you? I hate formalities." he said quietly to John.

"Your live revolves purely around making women miserable, doesn't it?" John hissed in reply.

"Something like that."

* * *

**A/N : Well, there you are. I was going to include the… ****_ahem_****, next bit… in with this chapter, but I thought I'd leave you hanging a little longer. Plus, I haven't actually written it yet. But it's coming, next. It's going to be dramatic and possibly a little disturbing, though I'll try and keep that to a minimum. There will be confrontation, soul searching (as usual) a lot more guilt (though not from it's normal source i.e. Sally & Anderson, from... other people) and possible heavy references to suicide. But I'm not giving anything away *cough cough*.**

**Mycroft didn't seem very in character, I know. I'm not very good at writing Mycroft's lines. I've made him seem a bit of a villain, haven't I? A little backstory villain. I didn't mean to. I'll have to sort that out. Not now. In later chapters.**

**I'd say that you won't have to wait long for the next chapter…But you probably will. **

**Thank you so much for the reviews! Be sure to include anything I've missed, any little detail that doesn't quite make sense… because god knows there's probably a lot of them. :D**

**-JC**


	10. Chapter 10

**Have two chapters (:**

**WARNING: this is actually kind of dark. I did not expect it to turn out like this. I swear I didn't. **

* * *

"What floor is this?"

"Seventh."

"Agggghhhhhhhh…"

"God, inspector, you really are unfit, aren't you?"

"You're all skin and bones. How can you possibly run up ten flights of stairs?"

"Practise."

"_Why_ didn't we take the elevator?"

"_We_ could have taken the elevator. Sherlock took the stairs and we followed him. It was – look, will you slow down?"

"No."

"My feet hurt."

"Shut up Donovan. Get better shoes."

Sherlock stood on the flight of stairs above them, haranguing their slow assent. John was about half a flight behind Sherlock, and Anderson a few steps in behind him. Greg was puffing a little harder than the others, but was keeping up relatively well. Donovan was paused on the flight below them, removing her shoes so that she could walk with comfort. Sherlock was getting more and more frantic.

He collected them all at the eighth floor, "Right. Inspector, you're coming with me. John, check around, make sure there aren't any other exits – including windows. If there are windows _anywhere_ near the fire escape, get one of these two to cover them."

"These two have names," Anderson muttered under his breath. Sherlock ignored him.

"Look for signs – we need to know if he's still in there-"

"He is."

"He - How did you know he's still in there?" Sherlock asked suspiciously. Lestrade shrugged.

"The receptionist said he hadn't signed out."

"Did she?" Sherlock said, confused. John interrupted.

"Yes, she did. You were already halfway up the stairs at that time, as I recall."

Sherlock nodded, "Alright, he at least hasn't come down _this_ flight of stairs. That much we know. John, go straight to the windows. Check if he could have run down the fire escape. Check every door, everywhere. I don't want him getting away."

John nodded, and started to ascend the stairs in a leaping bound.

Sherlock followed him at a sprint, but Greg caught up to him just as he reached the tenth floor. He took Sherlock's elbow.

"Look, are you sure you should be doing this?" He asked. Sherlock stared him in the eye.

"Yes. Definitely. He's a murderer. It's what I do."

Lestrade held his grip for a second longer, "He wants to kill you. You said so yourself. It would be far smarter to let us in, deal with him… You don't have to... I mean, just wait-"

"Do you really expect me to stand here and _wait_ for you to subdue him?" Sherlock said incredulously, "You want me to _wait,_ not knowing what's happening what he's doing, what – No. I don't care how smart it would be, I'm not standing this one out. You knew I wouldn't."

Lestrade nodded quietly. He had known. And he had known that that would be Sherlock's response. It had been a long shot.

Donovan finally reached the top of the stairs, her shoes slung over her shoulder. She tossed them into the corner, and took a gun from Lestrade. The Detective inspector evidently kept more than one about his person for just this sort of occasion. Sally handled the gun with a confidence that was highly un-nerving. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and turned back to the corridor.

John was leaning his head out of the window. He turned to Sherlock and shook his head, indicating the lack of feasible escape route there. Sherlock gestured for him to check the rooms opposite, and John did so, quietly whispering reassurances and questions to the occupants. Sherlock walked up to the door, trying not to betray his nerves. He wasn't feeling that thrill of the chase, the thrill he thrived on. He could only feel dread, dread at what he would find. He wasn't sure what would be worse. His father there in that room, or his father... not. As long as his mother was safe, he didn't mind, as long as she wasn't being… held hostage, or threatened or worse. She didn't deserve that.

He placed a hand on the door, hesitant. He visualised all the possible angles of attack, preparing himself to duck or roll (or both). His sweaty hand slipped on the handle as he squeezed it open.

Nothing stirred in the room. Sherlock readied himself to look around the door, prepared to dodge the bullets he expected to head his way.

But there were none of these, and he flung the door open to its extremes. He entered the room, Lestrade following him inside in a hurry. The other two trailed them uncertainly, guns held tightly within nervous grips.

Sherlock felt his heart dive. He broke into a spontaneous sweat, and flung himself forward into the room, stumbling slightly as he did so. For a moment he blocked the view of the rest of the room from the other three's line of vision. But not for long.

They stopped in their tracks. Shock and fear and disgust warred on all faces. Sherlock was kneeling by the bed, anger making his limbs shake. Sally gave a loud squeak, and Anderson recoiled, his stomach threatening to relieve its contents over the carpet.

Sherlock frantically bent over the woman in the bed, professional air suddenly dissipated and adrenaline-fueled activity taking its place.

"John!" he yelled frantically, "John, get in here!"

"What? What is it- Jesus Christ," John said, halting in the doorway. Sally wobbled a little, and Anderson grabbed her arm to steady her. She turned and buried her face in his chest, unable to look back at the bed. God.

John rushed to Sherlock's side, the doctor in him coming to the fore.

"Get a nurse. Someone, get a nurse. Get the receptionist. Get anybody – Lestrade!" he half shouted at the prone policeman, "Get someone!"

"Who?"

"Anyone!"

Lestrade snapped out of his trance and leapt to the stairs, pulling out his phone on the way and hurriedly dialling.

"Sherlock, get something to staunch the wounds," John said snappily, and Sherlock thrust some sheets at him. John ripped them into uneven strips, hurriedly bundling them into a make-shift pad. He held them tightly against the frail skin, not allowing his fear or horror to overwhelm his profession – he had trained for this, he worked for this. He had been trained to block out these emotions. It was ironic, really.

Sherlock was frantically searching through the cupboards, pulling out piles of bandages and carting them over to John. There was blood all over the bed, and John couldn't help but realise that they were probably too late.

Sherlock, unable to help, touched the woman's face. His mother's eyes fluttered under their lids, and he stroked her face, trying to exude some comfort for her.

"Hey mum," he whispered, stroking her face, as John frantically tried to keep her lifeblood from deserting her, "it's okay, it's okay, He's not going to hurt you any more, I promise."

" - - " His mother made an undistinguishable noise, and he put his face closer to her, "Sh- my-Sh…sher…not a - bad boy?"

He cradled her head in his arms, "I was trying to help you mum," he whispered, "I was always just trying to help you. I love you, huh? You remember that?"

A small smile flickered over his mother's face.

Lestrade burst back into the room with a nurse and three other men in tow. They all crowded around the bed.

"Jesus," Lestrade said in shock, "I thought… I thought you said he loved her. What'd… what'd he do to her?"

Sherlock looked up from where he was cradling her head. She couldn't hear him any more, he suspected. Loving words would bring her no comfort. He looked up at Lestrade, face blank and immovable.

"Nothing," he said softly, "She did it to herself."

* * *

Sally was still crying quietly to herself as they stood outside the room. The nurse and doctors were frantically trying to keep Mrs Holmes alive. Sherlock was white faced and shaking.

"He's going to pay," He growled to himself, "Oh yes he's going to pay."

John touched his arm, but it was small comfort. Lestrade was hopping from one foot to the other in an agitated little dance. Anderson followed Sherlock's movements, watching his reactions. Sadness wasn't really there. The detective wasn't sad. He was angry, but that was the only obvious emotion. The rest was hidden, blank. Sherlock felt the stare, and looked across at Anderson, who didn't bother looking away. No point pretending that he had merely glanced at the detective. Sherlock held his gaze for a second, and then they averted their eyes from each other.

John jumped slightly as his phone buzzed.

"Sorry," he said in a croaky voice, and pulled out his phone.

**_Plane landed. Coming immediately. Do nothing until I get there.  
-Mycroft._**

John groaned and slipped his phone back into his pocket, "Mycroft's plane has landed. He's coming over here"

Sherlock sighed deeply, "He just doesn't know when to stop, does he? What's the bet he'll blame _me_ for this?"

"Not very likely, to be honest," John replied, "He can't blame you for… you know."

Sherlock shook his head, "No I suppose not. But I don't understand," he changed the subject, and started pacing, "Why would she do that? She's not… never was… I mean, for heaven's sake, she loved him, and he came back! Why would she just…"

"Maybe it was too much for her," John said quietly. Sherlock looked at him questioningly.

"Too much, what do you mean, too much?"

John didn't reply. Tact was necessary here, and he just shook his head. Sherlock continued his pacing, until his own phone buzzed with a text.

He frowned and dug it out, "And _now_ Mycroft's texting _me_,because John's the first port of call" he said sarcastically. He looked down at the screen.

**_come and find me come and let me KILL YOU xo  
_**

Sherlock looked up at the other four. The shock and anger was clear on his face. He slipped his phone back into his pocket.

"He's… still here." He said in wonder. John's eyes snapped up to meet Sherlock's.

"What? You mean he hasn't run?"

Sherlock nodded, "That's exactly what I mean. He's here, in this building. He wants me to come."

"Why?" Lestrade asked, "Has he got a _death wish_?"

"Yes," Sherlock said in a whisper, "I think he does."

He turned to the other four, "I don't expect you to follow me. Try and stop Mycroft from blowing his top when he gets here." He said, and started walking off down the corridor.

John paused, and shook his head, "You idiot," he said quietly, and then strode off after Sherlock.

Lestrade jogged after them, without a backward glance.

Sally and Anderson looked at each other.

"Yep," Anderson said quietly to her.

They turned, and followed the inspector.

* * *

Sherlock glanced back and saw them all following him. He wasn't sure whether to be flattered, grateful or pissed off, and settled for a combination of all three.

The building was a large one, but then again there were only so many places in which a person could hide. The bottom three floors were staffed at practically all hours. The night shift nurses roamed the corridors at irregular intervals, making it hard for someone to get out without being noticed. Sherlock made a quick decision, and turned to the others.

"You stupid fools, you shouldn't be coming." He growled. This statement was met with rolled eyes and determination.

John sighed, "You don't really expect me to let you go off on your own, do you? I know you're stupid, but not that stupid." He smiled to take the edge off the words, but Sherlock knew it wasn't an insult.

Sherlock nodded to himself, "I suppose you're right. Just… don't make any unnecessary noise. I'm not sure which floor he's on, so we'll need to check everywhere. Absolutely everywhere, got it?"

They continued back along the path Sherlock was treading. He was scouring the wall and floors for signs, pausing and muttering to himself, and then continuing on. Sally and Andrson were peering into rooms further along the corridor, whispering to any occupants who they woke with their intrusions. John kept in close to Sherlock, hand resting on his back. Lestrade joined them, and the three proceeded with a whispered conversation.

"You alright?" Lestrade said. Sherlock ignored him, and he exchanged a desperate look with John, who took up the role of whispered interrogator.

"Sherlock, what are we looking for?"

Sherlock shook his head at them, eyes roaming over the floor surface for signs. A wheeled trolley, a woman, a man with a limp in his left leg, that convoy of nurses and doctors – now _they_ had really messed things up. There was nothing to be found on the floor as a sign of the direction in which his father had gone. Sherlock stopped suddenly, and the other two halted with him.

"No, we're going about this the wrong way." He said musingly, "We need to _think_. John-" he said, turning to his regular ideas sounding board, "If you were trapped in a hospital, or a large building in general, with someone chasing you, where would you go?"

"Down," John said immediately. Sherlock mulled this answer over.

"Why?" he said.

"Because there are more exits." John said. Sherlock smiled.

"But he doesn't want exits." he said. "He wants no exits, nowhere for him, or me, to run to."

He turned, and waved to attract Donovan and Anderson's attention.

"I think he's on the roof." He said.

It was like deja vu, he thought to himself as they traipsed to the elevtor. How ironic.

* * *

There was a hiss and a click, as the lift doors open.

Sherlock lead them all out of the steel doorway, his eyes fixed on the solitary figure sitting on the small bench. The bench was placed so that it faced the skyline, and a small sliver of the sun still lingered over the horizon. But most of the light came from the moon.

Sherlock walked forward, listening for that voice, waiting to hear the truth from the psychopath's own mouth. He felt the gun shake in his hands – no, he felt his hands shake around the gun. He was waiting for laughter, or glee, or smugness, from the psychopath. But the shadow gave only one sound – tears. The psychopath was crying.

Sherlock stopped. The man on the bench was crying to himself, quietly, indistinctly, but definitely crying. The shoulders were shaking, and Sherlock gripped the gun.

"Hello daddy." He said quietly.

The head whipped around, with a sudden flash of heightened energy. The moon glowed off a face, a terrible, horrible face. It was twisted with hatred, tears dribbling from creased eyes. The skin was leathery, hard worn, but pale as the watery moon that hung overhead. He might once have been handsome. Sherlock knew that he had been, but not anymore. Now he was twisted, hatred and bitterness moulding his face into a demon, a hellish grin stretching his cheeks.

The psychopath smiled hugely, "You came," he said, but as he said it the smile dropped from his face, and his mouth morphed into an accusation, "You."

Sherlock raised his gun, "Yes. I always do what my daddy tells me." He said simply.

The psychopath laughed, and levered himself to his feet, "No, not always." He said, walking forward. Sherlock raised his gun to point at the father's head, and the psychopath stopped mid-step. He looked at the gun for a while, and then, pointedly, finished his step, bringing him within touching distance of the barrel. Sherlock glared at him.

"I'd shoot you now," he said silkily, "But I need to know. I need to know what you did."

The psychopath cocked his head, "What _I_ did?" he said wonderingly. Sherlock supported his single handed grip on the gun with his other hand now, pointing it unwaveringly at it's target. He felt John come into a similar stance beside him.

"Yes," he said, "What _you_ did. How you drove her to… kill herself?"

The face, so hard and cold froze mid smirk, and crumbled. A desperate face.

"I couldn't make my baby better," the Psychopath said, "I wanted to make my baby better, but she didn't like it. She didn't want you to be a bad boy. She wouldn't listen, she wouldn't listen," He turned angry again, and turned on Sherlock, "You took her away from me before, and you've taken her away from me _again_, You cant even begin to imagine-"

Sherlock looked down at the father, who was a good half an inch shorter than him. He felt the fear bash away in his chest, but there was disgust mingled in with it.

"You killed my mother," he said.

"No, it wasn't my fault, it wasn't my fault…" the father closed his eyes, guilt ripe on his face… then he turned to a culprit he preferred, "No. It was your fault. Your fault, FREAK!" The psychopath's face was a writhing mass of fury. John gulped, hoping Sherlock had a better plan then just shooting.

It would seem that he didn't.

"I'll give you one chance," Sherlock said evenly, "One chance to come quietly. Please, please, don't take it. It would give me far more satisfaction to shoot you."

The father raised himself to his full height, and pulled a gun from beneath his own coat.

"I know it would. You'd do it, too." He said, "But I don't want you to shoot me. To die at your hand, no. I'd kill myself before you could."

Sherlock took a step backwards. Lestrade came up beside him, pointing his own weapon at the psychopath.

"Sir, put down the gun and we won't shoot."

There was a roaring echo as the psychopath's gun fired into the darkness. The bullet missed Lestrade by a long shot, and ricocheted off the elevator door. Lestrade stumbled, fear on his face.

"I don't want to come quietly, _don't you get it_? I don't want to come with you. I have nothing, nothing in this world worth staying for – except you, Sherlock. Except you, and your death. If I were to leave this world, I'll bring you along with me, even if I have to drag your soul _screaming from your body_!" he screeched into the night.

He leapt, gun swinging in a wild arc. Sherlock stumbled backward, and his gun spat a bullet. But the shock had knocked his aim, and a window across the road shattered. He ducked the oncoming blow and shoved the father's chest, with all his strength. John joined him, trying desperately to grab the gun from the rage-filled man. The psychopath reeled, and shot again.

"I'll bring you with me!" he cried, and he was laughing now, "Baby boy going down with his Daddy, aren't you so happy that you've got your Daddy to help you go?"

Sherlock kicked him, hard, and then brought his gun up to rest onto the psychopath's temple. The sudden rush of action was quelled. Donovan and Anderson were standing back, weapons hanging uselessly from their numb hands. John was on the ground, panting, head throbbing where the butt of the psychopath's gun had walloped him. His vision was going swimmy.

"Aren't you scared, baby boy?" the father asked, licking his lips and looking up with wild eyes, "Aren't you scared? Do you remember all those times I made you scream? Remember when I hurt you? I'll do it all again Sherlock, All again. You can't shoot me, because I'm your daddy. That's why you never fought back, because you loved your daddy, and you cant do it now, can you?"

"Wrong," Sherlock said, "I can do it, and I will do it. I don't love you. I don't love anyone. I'll kill you, right here, right now, without a second thought."

The father stopped smiling. His face was cold.

"You've changed." He said simply.

"No. I was always like this, _daddy_, you just never noticed."

"Why would you?" the father said, turning his head to look at the gun, "Why would you do that? You don't fight back. You never did."

"Well, _daddy_." Sherlock hissed, "I guess this is how you made me."

* * *

John sat up. Sherlock had his gun pressed against his father's temple, both faces hard, both hands clenched. It was impossible at that moment not to compare them. They were so alike, both tall and thin, pale and commanding. Two immovable forces crushed against each other, straining to be the victor. The same hatred, mirrored in those pale faces. The same sadness (Sherlock wouldn't deny it) and hatred of the other, for the same reason. One person that linked both of them, was gone, and now they were both at their breaking point. It was just who would act first.

Sherlock used his left hand to grab a hold of his father's gun.

"Don't try it," he hissed, as the father's finger tightened on the trigger, "You really don't want to try it."

The psychopath looked him in the eye. Lestrade held his breath, his gun still pointed at the father's head.

"Yes I do." Said the psychopath, and pulled the trigger.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock felt a blaring pain in his right leg, just up near the hip. He gasped in shock, the pain coming suddenly and violently. He fell forward onto his father who shoved him backwards into Lestrade. The two detectives went down in a heap, two guns skittering in opposite directions. John staggered to his feet and grabbed at the father's outstretched gun, pushing it away from Sherlock.

Sherlock tried to stand desperately, but his leg was weak beneath him and he fell back to the ground. The father was raging and fighting as if the energy that sprung to his muscles were tenfold. John was being overwhelmed, and the psychopath started to force the gun in his directions. John panicked, and kicked the father in the back of the knee. There was a pause and then John was sent crashing to the ground by a savage right hook. It was all the motivation that Sherlock needed to throw himself back into the fray. He grabbed his gun from where it lay, and used his left leg to propel him into the psychopath.

His father stumbled under the dead weight, and they went crashing over one of the ornamental pot plants. The father had lost his gun and was wrestling Sherlock for his. The fight was furious, and Lestrade was trying desperately to pull the father off Sherlock. But then the psychopath grabbed at Greg's legs, and brought him crashing to the ground, thumping his head on the pavement and knocking him out. The Psychopath's hand bunched into a fist, which was sent crashing into Sherlock's wounded leg.

Sherlock screamed. Anderson and Sally stood around them, trying desperately to find someone to aim at. The psychopath took up the fallen gun, and pressed it against Sherlock's head.

"Don't," he said, a smile breaking over his face. He was panting, and laughing. Sherlock had tears of pain on his face, but all could see the hatred there never the less. His hands groped for the gun, but his father tutted.

"Don't do that Sherly. Don't do that, my bad little boy. You little freak," he spat, and Sherlock winced, "You think you could do that? To me? I'm going to hurt you, I'm going to hurt you."

Sherlock coughed, a loud, retching cough. There was blood on his head where the gun had made contact. He was dizzy, and his father's arm was slowly cutting off his windpipe. He began to choke.

"Da - - Go" he choked, unable to form syllables. The father shoved him onto the ground and stood on his back, leaning down next to his ear.

"I made you what you are," he hissed.

"Your little clone," Sherlock whispered back, in a tight voice "Your little Frankenstein."

"My little freak," the father agreed, and checked the safety. It made a satisfying click, and he smiled, priming the gun once again. John was unable to stand, his head was spinning, and he couldn't concentrate properly. Lestrade was holding his head, equally immobilised. Anderson moved forward, gun rising to point at the psychopath's head.

There was the roar of a gun, and Sherlock let out an involuntary scream. The whole terrible scene seemed to pause. The world had stopped. The gunshot's reverberation hung in the air.

Then the father stumbled, shock evident on his face. Blood dripped down from the vicious wound in his chest. He swayed.

Sally stared at Anderson in shock, but Anderson was equally stunned.

He hadn't pulled the trigger.

Then the psychopath crumbled on top of his unconscious son, their blood mingling on the pavement. The othersh were all made aware of the figure in the shadows, holding a gun, pointed at the prone father.

"That was brother you just shot, _daddy._" Said Mycroft.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock lay on the ground, wavering in and out of consciousness. He could see nothing, nothing at all. He could feel a terrible pain, radiating from his leg, and could also feel a heavy, shaking thing weighing him down. It was pressing down on him, crushing him. He tried to shove it off, but some part of it was attached to him. He tried to speak, but found he couldn't Something was cutting off his windpipe.

Then he finally caught up with the situation, and realised the thing connecting that dead weight to him, and the thing slowly strangling him was one and the same. The thing had fingers. It was a hand. The thing on top of him was a person.

His mind snapped back fully to the present, and he cried out in shock, but it came out as a strangled gurgle. His vision was slowly returning, and he could see blood, a lot of it. It was raining down on him from above. There was a choking, gurgling laugh.

His father. He recognised that laugh. Of course he recognised it. It was that laugh that had gone with beatings, had gone with threats and punishments. He would never forget that laugh. Now he could see the face, twisted into a ghastly smile, a smile of triumph. H_e's going to win_ was Sherlock's wild thought. He twisted in the deadly grip, but couldn't control his limbs properly. The father was above him, strength leaving him along with the blood - blood that poured from the gaping hole in his chest and erupted from his lips in a sickly froth. He was laughing and pressing his weight on Sherlock's throat.

Victory was so nearly his.

Sherlock fought ineffectively, the small amount of strength left in his limbs not enough to move the desperate and determined father. His vision was fading again, and his fingernails scraped desperately on the hand that clamped his throat to the floor.

His father had won, and that hurt almost as much as his impending death.

* * *

Mycroft was sprinting forward, tossing his gun and umbrella to one side, joining Anderson in a frantic heave to remove the father from Sherlock's feebly twitching body. The grip on Sherlock's throat was tight, every last ounce of strength intent on choking the life out of him. Mycroft grabbed him by the neck, and Anderson grabbed his hands, and together they managed to lever him off an ominously still Sherlock.

"FREAK!" spat the psychopath, blood erupting from his lips in a foul tide. His legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed onto the pavement. John finally managed to find his feet, and stumbled over to flop next to the bloodied detective.

The psychopath laughed, blood gurgling out of his throat. Mycroft stared at him in disgust.

"Too late, big brother," the father croaked, bubbles of blood bursting out the corner of his mouth, "Didn't save him then, and you can't save him now."

Mycroft's face screwed into an expression of pure rage, and his neatly polished shoe crunched on the father's outstretched hand. There was a snapping noise, and the father choked a little. Mycroft bent down and grabbed onto the psychopath's lapels.

"I hope," he spat in the father's face, "that you die a long and horrible death."

The father laughed, long and loud. The string of laughs died away, replace by weak coughing. The psychopath was drowning on his own blood.

Mycroft shoved him away in disgust, and turned to John. John was holding his fingers to Sherlock's neck. His face was blank, and Mycroft squatted down next to his brother.

"How is he?" he asked. John looked up at him. There was a pause, and suddenly John was a fever of activity, pumping down on Sherlock's chest, and placing his mouth on top of his, fingers pinching the high-bridged nose, breathing for him. Mycroft felt his stomach swoop. John placed his hands over Sherlock's still heart.

"Don't- Even – Think - About it." He hissed, and then plunged back in to blow another breath. The lungs filled in response, but not of their own accord. John shook his head.

"Bull - shit." Pump, pump, pump, breathe. _No response. No response, god, no response_.

"Not – a – fucking – gain." Pump, pump, pump, breathe. _Come on._

"Come - on - Sherlock." Pump, pump, pump breathe. _Just breathe. Just bloody breathe._

John was growing desperate. Mycroft was going to intervene, in that second, that pause in his activity, when he knew John had reached his limit. He could take over, let John sit aside. God knows they had all had enough exertion to last. John looked as if he were close to fainting, and Mycroft started to speak.

But John was already pumping the thin chest again. Tears were running down his face. Last time Sherlock had lain, dead on the ground, and John hadn't been able to do anything about it. Or at least, Sherlock had seemed dead. But this time, John wasn't going to let him die, wasn't going to let him go. He would save him, him, personally. Dr John Watson, a lost man who'd been saved from a horrible, boring life by the world's only consulting detective, his best friend. This time it wasn't faked. This was real. No-one, no psychopath, no gun-wielding maniac, no umbrella wielding government official, however well-meaning was going to stop him. This was his friend, right here, right now, and Sherlock needed his help.

He was nearing the limit. He could feel his limbs shaking. Lestrade was next to him, face white and terrified. Sally had her arm around his shoulder, steadying him. Greg still hadn't fully recovered from the blow to the head. Anderson was holding the psychopath still. The father's jerking movements were growing weaker. He was laughing, and laughing as John tried desperately to resuscitate his son. Foam was gathering at the edge of his lips like he was a mad, rabid dog. Blood was welling up his throat, from his ruined lungs.

There was a loud, retching cough.

But it wasn't from the father.

John cried out in relief, as Sherlock's eyes widened, and he sucked in huge, gulping breath. John collapsed onto his chest, energy spent. Sherlock coughed for a little longer, grabbing onto his throat, the memory of the father's hands still lingering there. His vision slowly restored itself from it's previous blurred shambles, and he looked around. Greg was pale and shaken, but the relief on his face blazed through the darkness. John was crying on his chest. Sally and Anderson even looked relieved. Mycroft was just watching him.

Sherlock let his head rest on the pavement, and he placed a hand on John's shaking shoulder.

"You're late." He said accusingly to Mycroft. His voice was soft and rasping.

"You didn't know I was coming." Mycroft replied, a relieved smile breaking over his face.

"Yes I did." Sherlock said weakly, "Of course I did. I'm not stupid, you know."

"Who'd have guessed?" John said, his voice muffled by the scarf and folds of coat. He felt Sherlock's hand squeeze his shoulder, and the relief was almost too much for him to bear. He sat back up, smiling widely at Sherlock. Sherlock raised himself onto and elbow, and grinned.

"I'm just bleeding to death here," he said sarcastically, but the effect was ruined by his smile, "If you don't mind."

"Not at all," John said in reply, and started to staunch the horrible wound on Sherlock's leg. There was a lot of blood, but John didn't think it was life threatening. It was bad, but right now, John was more focused ont he fact that his firend was _alive._ Sherlock lay back, eyes closed, tired relief playing over his face.

Lestrade had tears on his cheeks, but he managed to choke out, "I told you it would have been smarter to stay behind."

Sherlock closed his eyes, fear and pain and a near-death experience sapping his strength.

"Yes, well. We got him in the end, right?"

They all turned to look at the psychopath, now a crumpled figure on the ground. He wasn't laughing anymore. His eyes were glassy, lips still stretched in that vindictive, ghoulish smile. Blood dripped from the mouth corners. Mycroft leant over and pressed his fingers into the nape of the man's neck.

"Yes," he said quietly, "We got him."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for your comments. I wasn't sure if anyone would like bad ass Mycroft from chapter 11. It was a little leap of the imagination… But hey, they're brothers. It's as close as they get to brotherly love. Defending your brother from a psychopath. It has some merit. **

**But, of course, only ****_after_**** your brother's been shot. Not before. That would just be embarrassing.**

**There will be more chapters, in which little details will be explained… like how he got on the roof…just wait.**

**I'm loving the reviews [ hint hint, leave me one ;D ]**

**Please give me your opinion. Just anything you feel like saying, even '****_Wow that was totally crap you suck._****'**

**Well, no, because it's supposed to be ****_constructive_**** criticism. Oh well.**

**Oh, and quick warning, you may not get another chapter for a while. I mean, you might. But you also might not.**

**-JC**


	13. Chapter 13

**A chapter and an epilogue.**

**Enjoy.**

**(Oh, and bits in italics are flashbacks. Just so you know)**

**-JC**

* * *

_"Yes, well. We got him in the end, right?"_

_They all turned to look at the psychopath, now a crumpled figure on the ground. He wasn't laughing anymore. His eyes were glassy, lips still stretched in that vindictive, ghoulish smile. Blood dripped from the mouth corners. Mycroft leant over and pressed his fingers into the nape of the man's neck._

_"Yes," he said quietly, "We got him."_

**_*Two weeks later*_**

"It's alright to be sad, you know." John said quietly.

They were gathered in a small cemetery. Sherlock had needed a lot of coaxing to get him out of the flat to attend, though both Mycroft and John had concurred that Sherlock probably did need to be there.

He stood now, next to his mother's grave, leaning heavily on the cane that supported him. His right leg still didn't do exactly what he told it to, which was rather ironic, in his personal view. He had purloined John's old cane, which he was now using. His crutches had been thrown under a bus in an experiment three days ago.

He had spent the past two weeks in an excruciating combination of pain, boredom and acute embarrassment, and was ready to snap at anyone who tried to comfort him.

His face was a hard, blank mask. Mycroft stood a few metres away, lips pursed in thought. Sherlock watched him. Mycroft had saved his life. He wasn't sure if he was grateful or embarrassed. Deep down, he was glad that he wasn't dead. But almost anyone saving his life would have been better than Mycroft. Even… no, he thought, Anderson saving my life would have been worse. He smiled to himself, a hard grimace of faint amusement. John saw it, and patted his hand.

Sherlock was about to say something, when John's phone buzzed, and he fished it out of his pocket. There was a slight pause.

"It's Mary. She wants to know if I'm free tonight... great."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Mary? Who's Mary?"

"Mary? The girl I've been seeing for about a month now?"

"You've been going out with someone?"

"Yes. You met her."

Sherlock frowned, "Did I?"

"Oh yes," John laughed to himself, "You certainly did. You loudly informed the _packed_ room of her previous marriage, deduced her sex life to her, and several of her co-workers faces and informed her that I had had more than twenty girlfriends before her."

"Hmm. You'd think I'd remember that. What did she say?"

"She laughed and agreed. On all three points."

"Oh. That's not fun." Sherlock said. They smiled together, companionably. Sherlock glanced sideways at him.

"You can go and pick her up if you like. I'll get a cab back when I… feel like it."

John looked hesitant, "Are you sure? I mean-"

Sherlock pushed his shoulder none too gently, "Get going, idiot." He said. John was startled into a walk, and he made his way to the car park, he kept glancing back over his shoulder. He had a feeling Sherlock wanted to be alone, and couldn't blame him.

Sherlock watched him go, and then turned back to the grave. So small. His mother had been a fairly small woman, now that he thought about it. She had looked even smaller in death. Such a small patch of dirt. Such a small woman.

But somehow, he didn't feel particularly sad. Sure, his mother wasn't on this earth anymore, but did that really matter? Not in the grand scheme of things. It was probably better this way. She wouldn't hurt any more, wouldn't cry any more, wouldn't feel despair at her predicament because she would never be in a predicament again. He wasn't sure why he didn't feel sad. He felt like he should be crying, but wasn't. he felt like her should be sobbing uncontrollably, bemoaning her death, but he wasn't. Yes, he should be. But he couldn't, couldn't let that feeling out. It was against his nature.

Mycroft was suddenly standing beside him, and he turned. His brother's face mirrored his own expression, sombre but hard.

"I would have thought we'd care more." He said softly. Sherlock shrugged.

"We're different. We always have been. There's no reason to cry."

Mycroft nodded to himself, musingly. "Perhaps not."

"Don't you find it funny - even though he went ot all that effort to detatch her from me, to make sure it didn't hurt her... Ironic, the outcome, isn't it?"

They stood side by side, and Mycroft touched his hand.

"No-one can see you, you know. I chased them all off. You _can_ cry, if you need to."

Sherlock shook his head, "I don't do feelings."

"You can, you know. Just this once. She was your mother."

"And yours."

"You needed her more than I did. I should have been there."

"Not your fault." Sherlock said, feeling an odd lump in his throat, "you were there in the end."

Mycroft nodded to himself, "I'm, just sorry I couldn't get there sooner."

"Yes, how did you get there in the first place?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft laughed, "You would not believe. The fire escape went to the wrong side of the roof, so I had to climb around the other edge."

* * *

_Mycroft cursed himself for his stupidity. The fire escape came up the wrong side. The wrong side! How was he supposed to take his father by surprise now? _

_There was only one thing for it. Sherlock held a gun to the father's head, and Mycroft, sure that attention was distracted, started to edge his way along the wall. The large outhouse in the middle of the roof provided cover, but there was a reason people weren't supposed to walk on this side. Mycroft clung to the wall._

_The shot went off, and his feet slipped. He heard a cry of agony._

_God. Was he too late?_

* * *

"You what?"

"I walked along the ledge. Went behind the outhouse thing. Nearly fell off, too."

Sherlock laughed, "Oh god, I can't imagine you - what, did you use your umbrella as a balancing pole?"

"Well, I couldn't come out _behind _you. I had to come out behind him. So…"

Sherlock shook his head, "You're an idiot."

"As per usual." Mycroft said evenly. He looked sideways at his brother, who was staring at the sky, throat working double time to prevent himself from crying. God, he hated that moment in time.

"Oh for god's sake," Sherlock snarled, wiping his moist eyes, "look at me. Bloody hell, I can't-"

He covered his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. Was it sadness, or fear? It was both. In that split second he had felt the hands around his throat again, heard the voice in his ear, the snarl, the laugh god it was too much, all too much - hi fingers leapt to his throat, trying to rip away invisible, nonexistant fingers. His breathing became ragged.

Mycroft recognised the signs of a panic attack and pulled Sherlock into his chest.

"He's dead, Sherlock. He's dead and gone and he's not coming back."

Sherlock sank to the ground, holding his face in his hands.

"I can hear him, god I can hear him. I can see him in the crowds, I hear his voice when I sleep, god, I'm going insane…" He took a deep, shuddering breath. Mycroft knelt next to him.

"I think," he said quietly, "that after all this you deserve a little insanity, brother. Emotions are insanity, and for god's sake, for once in your life, you really do deserve the freedom to show them. No-one will care, no-one will judge you. No-one is watching, do you understand? No-one."

Sherlock looked up at him.

"Thanks," he whispered brokenly, "For… you know, saving my life."

"My pleasure," Mycroft said, "though not, I suspect, yours."

"Are you joking? I'll never live it down." Sherlock looked out across the graveyard musingly, breathing calming to a normal rate, hands lightly tracing the light bruising still around his throat, "Why didn't you just send a bunch of… agents? You came yourself."

Mycroft turned to look at him, "I wasn't there when I needed to be, all those times before. I wasn't going to do that again. I may be heartless, but I do have a sense of duty."

"Duty. Don't bullshit me. You didn't do it out of a sense of _duty."_

Mycroft sighed.

"No, you're right. But we'll leave it at that. No need for anyone else to know that. Won't do any favours towards our... image. Waring brothers and the like."

Sherlock looked him up and down.

"No-one is watching? You can guarantee it?"

"Of course." Said Mycroft.

"Good." Sherlock said, and pulled his brother into a rough hug, "You utter prat."

Mycroft hugged him back, smiling slightly.

"So, we hug, and then continue on our lives completely ignoring each other?"

"Something like that."

* * *

Anderson stood at the cemetery. It was two hours after the elder Holmes brother had left. The cemetery was starting to grow dark.

He could see the familiar outline, the long and lanky shadow, sitting with his back propped against the marble of the headstone, throwing pieces of grass at other graves. He looked distant somehow, not mourning. he thought he could hear faint laughter. But no tears.

"Are you okay?" Anderson asked, coming up behind him. Sherlock turned around at the voice. His face was completely dry, completely passive. It was almost creepy.

"Did you just ask if I'm… okay?" Sherlock asked in disbelief. Anderson fiddled with his belt.

"Yeah. You looked kind of… alone."

Sherlock snorted and turned back to his previous musing task, "That's hardly unusual."

"What, you looking alone?"

"No, me being alone."

Anderson nodded to himself, glancing around at the empty graveyard. Sherlock was ignoring him again.

"These are yours." He said quietly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and turned to glance at what Anderson was holding. A wad of papers. He took them warily. They were ripped at one end. Anderson continued, "We've got some of the...footage, the footage he used with your mother. Do you..." he trailed off.

Sherlock looked at the ripped pages with a passive eye. Anderson explained quietly, though it was unnecessary.

"Your father had them in his pocket. They came form – he must have ripped them from that-"

Sherlock slapped his hands to his face, "Oh god that's embarrassing," he muttered. Anderson dug in his pocket, "There was another one, I found at your house, I mean-"

Sherlock grabbed it from him. Anderson stood back. The pieces of paper were from the diary they had found beneath Sherlock's bed. The pages were covered in scribbled notes and tear-stained writing.

_I'm going to hurt HIM he can't hurt me I'm going to hurt HIM. I'm not a freak I'm NOT A FREAK_

Sherlock looked at them for a second, and then scrunched them up into a large ball, sending them over the fence with a solid kick. They landed in a deep puddle and started to slowly sink. Sherlock fished the decimated notebook out of his pocket, gave it a brief glance, and ripped it in half along the spine, before sending it after it's now soggy inner pages.

He watched it sink, a smile spreading over his face - a manic smile. His breath became tighter, and he started to laugh. He laughed and laughed and laughed, a manic, crazy laughter. Anderson staggered backwards, as the detective laughed hysterically. He bent in the middle and laughed until his sides hurt. God they ached. He hadn't laughed like that in… years. A hysterical, crazy laugh. Nothing was particularly funny, but he couldn't stop. Was this panicking?

The laughter slowly subsided into a string of chuckles, and he suddenly became aware of the fact that Anderson was still standing behind him.

"What do you want?" He asked him, chuckling under his breath. Anderson looked slightly freaked out.

"Uh…" he said, disconcerted. Sherlock threw up his hands.

"Alright, answer me this: _Why_?" He shouted. Anderson jumped, and Sherlock rounded on him, "I don't understand, why? You and Donovan followed me, went along with me, you were there, on that rooftop. Why were you there? Why was she there? Why are you treating me like this? I don't understand – What's the deal? Why did you-"

Anderson opened his mouth, and then closed with an audible _clop_. Sherlock rubbed his jaw.

"Why did you come with us? You don't go out on field work. You're on forensics. Why were you there? Did you ask to be there?"

Anderson nodded slowly, "We convinced Lestr-"

"Why?" Sherlock snarled, "You're all treating me so differently. I don't understand."

"You honestly don't get it?" Anderson replied, disbelief creeping slowly across his face, "Not at all?"

"No," Sherlock said shortly, sitting back down with his back to his mother's grave, "Psychopath, remember?"

Anderson paused. Then he sat own opposite him, "Sociopath." He corrected.

Sherlock looked at him, "And we've finally worked out the difference between a Psychopath and a Sociopath, oh, well done children."

Anderson nodded to himself. They sat in silence. Sherlock was staring at him.

"Stop it." He said abruptly, "Stop being _nice._ I don't like it, it's disconcerting."

"What would you rather?"

"I'm used to Anderson the slightly stupid and highly aggravating."

"Slightly stupid? Is that a compliment?"

"Mmmm… If it were anyone other than you, I'd say no. But I exaggerate when I'm annoyed. You're only a little stupider than normal people."

"Wow." Anderson said, "That is a compliment."

"No, it isn't" Sherlock said, "Ordinary people are spectacularly obtuse." He stood now, brushing his backside free of grass and stretching. Anderson didn't rise.

"What was your mother like?" He asked. Sherlock glanced at him.

"Oh, she was a pure stereotype. Baking, laughing, hugging, that sort of thing." Sherlock replied airily. Anderson rested his chin on his knees. Sherlock looked down at him, "Why are you here? No-one else is."

Anderson shrugged, "Guess I just feel guilty."

"About what?" Sherlock asked, "I don't understand, why would _you_ feel guilty?"

Anderson rubbed his face, "Well, I have spent the past seven or so years repeatedly calling you a freak. And a psychopath. And a fraud, and then… well, now, after that video – god, and it turned that you – you know. And … yeah. You know."

"And it turned out you you know and yeah you know." Sherlock repeated flatly.

"Yeah… you know."

"I take it back," Sherlock said as he began to walk away, "you _are_ much stupider than normal people."

He felt more at home abusing Anderson, he decided.

Anderson watched his form beginning to grow smaller as he walked away. God, it was now or never, if he didn't say it now, he never would.

"I'm sorry." He called out.

Sherlock paused mid-step. This was utterly unreal. Anderson, apologising?

He turned to face him, "For what?"

Andersons stood as well.

"For the freak thing. For the fraud thing. For the psychopath thing. I still hate your guts, I admit. You're still an utter prick, but now I know _why_ you're an utter prick. I'm sorry for assuming you were just like that naturally. I'm sorry that your mother is dead, I'm sorry you father is dea – no, I mean, I'm sorry he did– no, I mean..." Anderson trailed off. Sherlock looked at him. His eyes were suddenly hard and frosty as ice.

"I never had a father," he said, "No father would do that to their child."

Anderson stood, staring at him, a blush creeping over his cheeks. Sherlock gave him a small smile. It was quite a shock.

"Thank you." he said quietly, and then pulled himself upright, taking in a deep breath, "I'd apologise for being a… 'prick'… but I honestly think you deserved it."

"Well, I think you deserved the hostility." Anderson replied, "I don't feel _that_ guilty. You still deserved some form of verbal abuse, just perhaps not…"

"I thoroughly agree. In future, forget about being nice," Sherlock requested, "I much prefer you when you're abusive, I think. Arguing comes far more naturally... to the both of us, I think."

He turned his back on Anderson, and began to skirt his way around the smaller graves.

"Oh, and Anderson?" He called, turning around for a split second. Anderson grunted in response.

"Please, never apologise to me again."

"Don't worry about that." Anderson said with relish.

* * *

The wad of papers sat soggily outside the gate. Sherlock looked down at them. The notebook's cover was slowly detatching itself from it's pages.

Sherlock stared at them for a second, and then turned on his heel, stalking off into the night, a small smirk of triumph and satisfaction lurking onhis face.

He had won. His father was gone, and he had won.


	14. Epilogue

Sherlock stood in the flat. A light rain pelted the windowpane. He rubbed his face. John was downstairs, saying goodbye to Mary. Sherlock smirked to himself.

The familiar footsteps echoed up from the stairs. John made his way over to stand next to the detective.

"You okay?" he asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and picked up his bow.

"Of course."

John smiled to himself, as Sherlock sat back on his armchair, and began to stroke the strings.

"Of course_._" Sherlock whispered to himself, so that John couldn't hear. For a second he could hear a laugh – a distant, insane, cackling, choking laugh – feel a hand reach around his neck…

"_F__reak…"_

But then it was gone, and it was just him and John, alone in the flat.

* * *

**.  
**

**Once upon a time, a man hurt his son**

"_Daddy, stop, stop, you're hurting me!"_

_"You're sorry, you little freak? Huh? Now you're sorry!"  
_

_"DADDY!"  
_

**.  
**

**Once upon a time, the son fought back**

_"I guess this is how you made me."_

_"Daddy."  
_

**.**

"I never had a father."

**_.  
_**

**"No father would do that to their child."**

**_.  
_**

* * *

...

**Author's [very last] Note.  
**

**I was two seconds away from writing the big THE END.**

**But I couldn't bring myself to do it. I have never finished any kind of story before. Not even a small one like this. This is the first one. EVER. (I'm not including little one-shot short story things here.)**

**I shall celebrate with chocolate and cheers. On my own, as per usual ): Oh well. **

**Yes, this is the end. No more, all done and dusted, finished. Thank you so much to everyone who followed favourited and reviewed. You have all been fantastic. Hope I haven't left any loose ends. There's only one thing to do now… Post this chapter, and click that little button, the one labelled ****_complete._**** Wow. That button has haunted me for the past two chapters.**

**I'm sorry this chapter (and epilogue) took a while. It took me a while to get properly inspired. Hope it wasn't a letdown!**

**Please leave a last review. You won't get another chance. Please do.  
**

**But, let's face it, any criticism or suggestions are a little too late.**

**Because this is **

**THE END**

**-JC**


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